Postoni ndonje te tille nese keni deshire e kohe. Ju lutemi kufizoni nga nje prurje, qofte poezi, tregim, apo pasazh.

Them se do ishte mire, te pakten per te shtuar caze ngjyrimet krijuese ketu tek peshku yne.

Ju falenderojme paraprakisht.

Poezia/ tregimi i shkurtër/ vargje këngësh që ju pëlqejnë në këtë/ atë kohë I

312 Komente

"Queen Kong," Carol Ann Duffy

I remember peeping in at his skyscraper room
and seeing him fast asleep. My little man.
I’d been in Manhattan a week,
making my plans; staying at 2 quiet hotels
in the Village, where people were used to strangers
and more or less left you alone. To this day
I’m especially fond of pastrami on rye.

I digress. As you see, this island’s a paradise.
He’d arrived, my man, with a documentary team
to make a film. (There’s a particular toad
that lays its eggs only here.) I found him alone
in a clearing, scooped him up in my palm,
and held his wriggling, shouting life till he calmed.
For me, it was absolutely love at first sight.

I’d been so lonely. Long nights in the heat
of my own pelt, rumbling an animal blues.
All right, he was small, but perfectly formed
and gorgeous. There were things he could do
for me with the sweet finesse of those hands
that no gorilla could. I swore in my huge heart
to follow him then to the ends of the earth.

For he wouldn’t stay here. He was nervous.
I’d go to his camp each night at dusk,
crouch by the delicate tents, and wait. His colleagues
always sent him out pretty quick. He’d climb
into my open hand, sit down; and then I’d gently pick
at his shirt and his trews, peel him, put
the tip of my tongue to the grape of his flesh.

Bliss. But when he’d finished his prize-winning film,
he packed his case; hopped up and down
on my heartline, miming the flight back home
to New York. Big metal bird. Didn’t he know
I could swat his plane from these skies like a gnat?
But I let him go, my man. I watched him fly
into the sun as I thumped at my breast, distraught.

I lasted a month. I slept for a week,
then woke to binge for a fortnight. I didn’t wash.
The parrots clacked their migraine chant.
The swinging monkeys whinged. Fevered, I drank
handfuls of river right by the spot where he’d bathed.
I bled with a fat, red moon rolled on the jungle roof.
And after that, I decided to get him back.

So I came to sail up the Hudson one June night,
with the New York skyline a concrete rainforest
of light; and felt, lovesick and vast, the first
glimmer of hope in weeks. I was discreet, prowled
those streets in darkness, pressing my passionate eye
to a thousand windows, each with its modest peep-show
of boredom or pain, of drama, consolation, remorse.



I found him, of course. At 3 a.m. on a Sunday,

dreaming alone in his single bed; over his lovely head
a blown-up photograph of myself. I stared for a long time
till my big brown eyes grew moist; then I padded away
through Central Park, under the stars. He was mine.
Next day, I shopped. Clothes for my main, mainly,
but one or two treats for myself from Bloomingdale’s.

I picked him, like a chocolate from the top layer
of a box, one Friday night, out of his room
and let him dangle in the air between my finger
and my thumb in a teasing, lover’s way. Then we sat
on the tip of the Empire State Building, saying farewell
to the Brooklyn Bridge, to the winking yellow cabs,
to the helicopters over the river, dragonflies.

Twelve happy years. He slept in my fur, woke early
to massage the heavy lids of my eyes. I liked that.
He liked me to gently blow on him; or scratch,
with care, the length of his back with my nail.
Then I’d ask him to play on the wooden pipes he’d made
in our first year. He’d sit, cross-legged, near my ear
for hours: his plaintive, lost tunes making me cry.

When he died, I held him all night, shaking him
like a doll, licking his face, breast, soles of his feet,
his little rod. But then, heartsore as I was, I set to work.
He would be pleased. I wear him now around my neck,
perfect, preserved, with tiny emeralds for eyes. No man
has been loved more. I’m sure that, sometimes, in his silent death,
against my massive, breathing lungs, he hears me roar.

Kjo me pelqeu pa mase. Faleminderit qe e prure kete dhe qe m'a solle ne vemendje. 

Capital Punishment -- Big Pun

It's mine, it's all mine you understand?
At least me and my peoples, can you dig that?
21st century thought I'd never see it
Right around the corner, baby ours for the taking

Yo, I've seen child blossom to man
Some withered and turned to murderers
Led astray by the liars death glorifiers observin' us
Watching us close, marking our toast [unverified]

Purposely overtaxin' the earnings
Nervous, burning down the churches
They're scared of us, rather beware than dare to trust
Always in jail, million dollar bail, left there to rust

Let's call in order, give ourselves a chance to enhance broader
Advance to where minorities are the majority voter
Holdin' my own, I'm livin' alone in this cold world
My sister just bought a home without a loan, you go girl

She's an exception, some people can leap to the impression
See, me myself, I start flippin' and fall victim to deep depression
I'm stressin' the issue here, so we can cross the fiscal year
Tired of gettin' fired and hired as a pistol-eer

There's no longevity living off negativity
Fuck it, I'd rather sell reefer than do pizza delivery
That's how the city be, everybody gettin they hustle on
Judge singin' death penalty like it's his favorite fuckin' song
Word is bond, takin' my life you know they lovin' it
God 'F' the government and it's fuckin' capital punishment

Capital punishment, given by the government
System so organized they get to you and who you runnin' with
Can't live alone, watch for the spies and tapped phones
Totin' the llello for life, the rightful heir to the throne

We come from Kings and Queens, people with dreams
Gods and Earths
For what it's worth we benefit the Earth with infinite worth
First it's turnin' tables, open our own labels
Disable the Republicans, then reverse capital punishment

I've seen it all up close, shit out the movies you'd be buggin'
My cousin JuJe, barely a juve', lost it and turned on the oven
He wasn't playin', blew out the flame and started inhalin'
Barin' a secret too deep to keep on the street for sharin'

Wearin' the virus, Acquired Immune Deficiency
Dishin' his dick in every thick promiscuous fish in the sea
Listen to me, shit is rough in the ghetto
You bluff, blow your head off, fuck a snuff, we bust lead off




Get off your high horse, or die off like an extinction
Boriquans are like Mohican's, 'The Last of the Po' Ricans'
We need some unity, fuck all the jeeps and jewelry
The maturity, keeps me six feet, above obscurity

The streets are deadly and everybody's a desperado
I guess the motto we promise to let you homage in death your motto
Like Zorro, I mark my territory with a symbol
Not with a Z, but a P, 'cause Punishment's what I resemble

I lend you this if it expands yours, for you and yours
A real man can't fall, he stands tall
The Man's claws are diggin' in my back, I'm tryin' to hit him back
Time to counteract, where my niggaz at?

Capital punishment, given by the government
System so organized they get to you and who you runnin' with
Can't live alone, watch for the spies and tapped phones
Totin' the llello for life, the rightful heir to the throne

We come from Kings and Queens, people with dreams
Gods and Earths
For what it's worth, we benefit the Earth with infinite worth
First it's turnin' tables, open our own labels
Disable the Republicans, then reverse capital punishment

You like that, it's Pun and Prospect
We hold nines, own more treasure than gold mines, makin' progress
With Don Juan's, there's rules to be made, crews to be sprayed
Dues to be paid, nuttin' y'all can do to behave

We laid in the slums, made a cake out of crumbs
Even though the government, tryin to take out our sons
Rudy Gulliani trying to blind me, but I see reality
Was raised with the street mentality

My strategy's why my battery never die
The ghetto kept me wise, so I would never fall to the lies
It's no surprise, but do or die if you want the glamour
Yeah, I want the glamour, laid up with cheese and trees in Atlanta

While Cubans smoked out like Ronald Isley with Havanas
The hammer in the palm, never shaky, calm handlers
This renegade blow through barricades like grenades
I turn the sun to shade, then the night back to day

Like the twenty-four hour rotation
I know the location, it's just a little information
From the Squad, bringing the Terror for the nine-era
And let it rain on your fine leather, nigga, what?



Everybody wants to go to bed 
with everybody else, they're 
lined up for blocks, so I'll 
go to bed with you. They won't 
miss us

Poezi per Idrizin sepse u zhgenjye qe adminet e fshine ate te djeshmen.


« Delja Leshatake»


Na lumturove o dele e dheut,

me beeeene qe ben,

por ajo qe eshte mbreselenese,

eshte leshi i pashem,

qe ndriçon.


Dele e dheut, dele e dheut,

ajo beeeja qe ben,

ai leshi qe krijon.

Je e çmuar dele e njome,

per produktivitetin,

dhe per ate lesh qe nuk te mbaron.


Dele e dheut, dele e dheut,

ku po shkon o leshatake ?

Lesh ketu dhe lesh atje, delja e vogel po mbaron.

Nuk di ç'te beje delja e shkrete,

me gjithe ato delet tjera qe nuk ia varin leshin.


Dele e vogel, dele e vogel,

laje leshin se po kalbet,

shko tek lumi dhe noto,

te ben mire.

Por mos harro,

lesh si i joti,

nuk gjindet kund,

prandaj duje leshin,

se eshte i bukur.


Dele, dele,

bredh gjithe diten,

nje fjale t'embel,

nuk e bere t'ditun.



Jardin, kjo e dyta tregon se i je futur nje " pune " te lodheshme pa pike bereqeti.Keshtu qe " trendafilet e tu " rriten diku nga lagjia " giza" e pufteve dhe lypsave se sa buz Nilit.Nis nje profesion tjeter se poezite e tua nuk besoj ti redaktonte as Maqo Pelivani.
Jep ndonje mendim qe te mbahet mend, dikushi emershuar , tha nje llaf persembari .
Ndryshe adminet do kene gjithe te drejten te fshijne jo keto lloj xivo-gavosh kovaci, por..." te gjithe kopshtin " !

Grava me fal po mos u ben xheloz sepse nuk krijon Objekt Frymezimi . Hapu kanalet njerzve . Mos ua blloko frymezimin dhe do shohesh qe gradualisht do nxjerrin nga brenda gjera qe ti kenda . Me shume respekt .

Vleresoje punen e tjetrit !

Ja ky eshte nje frymezim ,  qe une them se edhe Poeti Kombetar i PPU do stepej nga ritmi qe krijon Leshi neper vergjet tuaja  !

Te lumte pena dhe dora e vogel kopshtare .Te lumte dhe mendja pjellore qe di te gjeje vend edhe per objekte ekzotike si Leshi e ti beje vergje . Leshi term pavetor ! Ne te dy sekset i kudo gjendur !

Me duket se jam pak "profet " duke ta parashikuar frymezimin qe kur te pershendeta me kengen e Beharit ..Iku Leshi ...

Urime Kopshtare smiley

Faleminderit Idriz. Irritimi im ndaj figures qe perfaqeson eshte ne te vertete frymezim per poezi, apo anti-poezi siç mund te jete kjo. E meriton me ashpersine e komenteve qe ben! 

The whole point is: Leri tjeret te komentojne pa i denigruar!!!!! 


Xake nuk e kam hic per mbrojtje dikujt sepse ketu opinione themi, por nuk me vjen hic mire qe nje njeri qe sjell poezi te huaja mjaft me peshe katandiset ne thures " vargjesh " te shpelara.Me vjen vertete keq per autorin sepse do doja ti lexoja gjera te mira.Ai qe ndjen frymezimin tek nje varg tregon boten e tij..Nuk thosh kot Virgjili" Na duhet nje jete e tere te kuptojme boten e poeteve lirike" Ky mund te jete nje djale me mjaft brume, ....pse dreqin ta kete te thartuar? Per kete i thashe ai le ta marri si te doje

Epo cfare te te them une ty smiley Vazhdo atehere edhe me Horacin smiley Lere or Burre .Tjetra ka frymezim per leshin , ty pse te hyn ne pune e ka te lare apo te pa lare ? Ne fund te fundit ka dhe ajo te drejten te zgjedhe mjetet krahsimore per te percjelle mesazhin . Leshi e frymezon - Lesh vargezon ! Cfare sheh keq ketu ?????????? Po me ndigjove mos nderhy me seriozisht ndaj Frymezimit ! Poetet jane te ndieshem !

Une kam keq se mos ndonje Xhahil turni nga Moderatoret fillon "fshirjet " nga kushedi cfaresebepi , psepse i heq te drejten tjetrit qe eshte munduar per Lesh !

Vjersha thote qe leshit tim nuk ja var njeri ..Nga e di ti si i bej une komentet kopshtare smiley Po mejtoj se duhet te kishe pak vleresim per profecine time kur te pershendeta me Leshin ...e Beharit . Ja ashtu rastesisht por ama e gjeta qe Leshi te jep Frymezim .

Dhe sa per dijeni me Lesh mbahet nje Derstile e tere ketu , qe ke tema Jote per seksin ., ne se dallove .Po nuk me besove hyr ne Kontakt me Drejtoreshen e Derstiles doren Vete zonjen Xhibole !

Mos e personalizo frymezimin se del si linje "dashtunie " smiley ...lemoje Leshin , dridhe ate , qethe dhe laje e beje shtellunge ....bene triko dhe nxirre ne treg . Pak rendesi ka per Poetin kush e blen . Rendesi ka qe te thone

"Kjo Poetesh perpunon  nga dora e saj  Lesh Cilesor ! " Munc qe te jesh dhe Kontra !

Leshi = fjale kote 

Si e interpreton ti eshte problemi yt. Une thjeshte u inspirova prej perdorimit te shpeshte qe i ben fjales "lesh." Ndoshta heren tjeter do te mendohesh nje ose dy here para se t'a thuash.

All I can do is hope!!!

Po nuk e kam me te keq moj .Leshi eshte Objekt Pavetor .E kupton .E ka shoqeruar Njeriun qe me shndrimin e Majmunit ne njeri   . Dhe akoma kemi Lesh . Eshte gje e rralle ta vleresosh si Objekt Frymezimi . Une per vete te cmoj , ti ben si te duash . Prandaj edhe e vlersova krijimtarine tuaj . E c'rendesi ka qe Ju doni te me perdorni mua ? Leshi ai eshte kryesori .. te tjerat jane te parendesishme per mua !

E pelqej kete gjetje dhe mund te kembej mejtime mbi Leshin si Objekt frymezimi !

jardin, jardin

je poete dhe e dlire

moj, ti hic mos u zemro

se idrisi fort te do

qe sot ai do bej kthese

i sjellshem dhe i paqem do te jetesmiley

Moj alba 1 pse moj koce eshte kjo e buzes Nilit? Une i varferi e kam kujtuar djale ...laneten.Me ka pelqyer se ka Nilin qe i kam rene pash e terthor dhe prisja mos jepte gjera, mbresa andej kur fap e mu hodh ke ...leshi!

s'e ka ne ate kuptimin e keq leshin ajo si po e masakrojne ketu. ajo ka ikur femije nga shqiperia dhe nuk i di shenjtanlliqet e shqiptareve. thjesht, ajo eshte e revoltuar me idrisin qe ofendon lart dhe poshte dhe  i kunderpergjigjet. na shkriu.

koce eshte o grava, koce deti.

Po ç'te bej O Alba? Nuk kisha menyre tjeter si t'ja thoja. Ma shpifi me terma te tille! 


te kuptoje shume mire jardin, lexo komentin me lart.

Moj cupe dale moj se ndjej dhe une nje fare pergjegjesie qe tu kundervura pake ashper.Se te mora per nga keta lanetrit qe nisen politikisht .
Padashur u bere person grotesk.Te gjith ketu sapo degjojne fjalen " lesh" u kujtohet nje tjeter personazh dhe e bejne menjehere " shtellungen"

Mfalni mue, por une e lexoj ndryshe poezine e Leshit ala Jerdin.

Nili eshte feministe e mundohet qe femrat te mos depilohen por te jene me te natyrshme lesh.  Ajo mundohet te bind femrat te respektojne dhuraten qe u ka bere natyra, te qenit femer por edhe me lesh. Fjala lesh i del nga subkoshienca sepse ndonje shoqja e saj eshte braktisur nga i dashuri se nuk ishte depiluar sic ai e kish pritshmerine. Leshi dhe Femra, nje marredhenie komplekse dhe traumatike.



kush admin e heq perlen poetike te deles se deshtume, i vjedhshin portofolin fiks para se te kene honger nji dark luksoze 500 dollarshe (pa llogarit tips).

ose iu maroft benzina midis dy gas stations te larget ne route 66!

Grand grand grand! 


Dele e vogel, dele e vogel,

laje leshin se po kalbet,

shko tek lumi dhe noto,

te ben mire.


Ajo qe me trondit me shume ne keto 4 vargje eshte thyerja 'te ben mire'. Nje mungese totale logjike, nje kalim i frikshem nga keshilla shko te lumi me te cilen lexuesi nenkupton larjen, pastrimin tek zbulesa prej gdheje 'te ben mire'. Ja ato tre fjale vrastare 'te''ben''mire' te thena aq kazuale, kane brenda nje rrenim kozmik ne pagdhendjen e tyre sa fale tyre neuronet qe transmetojne te bukuren ne trurin tim jane vrare pergjithmone b

Eshte fiks i njejti mekanizem qe vrau poezine e majakovskit. Krahaso Rene ne pantallona me poemin "Sa mire". Po keshtu ka vrare hitin e madh te Sheryl Crow "A change, would do you good". Pa kete varg vrastar, ai hit do ishte nje mega-hit. Kjo "te ben mire" si fjali deftore, eshte aty per te vrare artin e madh. Ne deshirore ndryshon pun a, "te befte mire" eshte gjith nerv e bukuri, po e keqja esht se deshiroren e kemi vetem ne sot dhe grekt e vjeter. What a shame, that is!

Ajo deftorja 'te ben mire' me carmatos ne menyre te befte. Me ngrin, me tuafizon ngerdhesh/shem, me hipnotizon magjishem dhe une e gjej veten paforce te them jo. Si ajo femra qe e ndergjegjshme qe se shmang dot perdhunimin e i nenshtrohet fatit. Magjike. Humnere rrezellitese e antietikes po mu bash aty gjen rrezellitjen prej margaritari. Pas vargut te trete ne milisekonde krijova 100 variante normale per vargun e katert. Po jo. Anormaliteti me ze mat, me pushton dhe une brohoras ne kllapi 'bravo jardin'. 

Une lexoj shpesh kadarene. Diku ai thote qe rreth moshes 30 vjec ju vrane qelizat e skrijonte dot me art te bukur, ju mpaken neuronet. Te njejtin efekt pati dhe jardin te une. Apo kur thote moli qe nje dite zbuloi dhimbshem qe nje varg a rresht nuk ishe ashtu sic mendonte ai ne nje liber. Rrenim kozmik. 

Edhe mua ai varg me ngjan mu si bishti akrepit qe ngrihet dhe te thumbon me helmin me nje shpejtesi rrufeje, tamam kur nuk e pret. 

Nje lak te tille qe mbyllet me shpejtesi une e kam vene re vetem tek vargu i fundit i "Dejeuner du matin" kur thuhet thjesht " j'ai pleure"

ku e lame e ku na mbeti, dude

looks like a lady smiley


leshi, zero e fyl...

Ne se dhe vete nuk po 10  se qeshuri tani , me keq se ne te dy , ajo duhet meshiruar ! Ja po ja zbus pakez ,  qe kopshatarja te kuptoje se Leshi nuk eshte nje gje e rendomte !

Lesh perjashta / lesh perbrenda / kolloqithja futet brenda . C'eshte ?

Kolloqithja = lakuriq.

 Carapka e Leshit dhe kemba qe futet ne te smiley 

Po ti gerrun , me kocet do merresh tani?

Fin edhe ti leshin?

smiley me duket ky muhabet i takonte te behej ke pacensura, jo ketu.

ky eshte nje event, kjo krahasohet vetem me "Misionin politiko - kulturor" te Pjerit. Monumentale!

Ngjarje te tilla ktu ndodhin vetem nje here ne vit.

A te marte e mira dhe ty ! Degjove !

shiko se mund ta kete fajin edhe kjo dite e zymte, me shi dhe erera te forta - gjithe diten! mbase ndikon ca ne mbivleresim. nuk e di.

Xhomaniket i ha Roni...! Pa punen e ben ustai...I pykave

Lesh ketu dhe lesh atje, delja e vogel po mbaron.

Nuk di ç'te beje delja e shkrete,

me gjithe ato delet tjera qe nuk ia varin leshin.

Leshi eshte perdorur per te mbuluar motivet e verteta. Pra eshte nje "pseudomotiv", jo nje lajtmotiv. Krijon nje shtellunge perfekte konfuzioni. 

e ka kete veti Jardini, gjithmone shkakton event ne nje mjedis si ky. Perse valle smiley

Wool in here, wool over there, the poor ship's running out

(of wool) and doesn't know what to do

however the other ship don't hang their wool on her.


ngeca ktu. ca t'i themi.

e shikon qe e kisha humbur fillin une. Se thashe c'ne anglisht, vjersha sikur ishte shqip. Qenka "pershtatje" nga emigranti. smiley Qe e ka shumefishuar vleren origjinale si fishekzjarr (nga ato te vitit te ri). ke shume te drejte qe i takon kategorise (apo misionit kulturor) qe percaktove me siper (me aq sa kam lexuar nga Pjer).

Do te doja qe poezise t'i kushtohej pak me shume vemendje nga ana e tekstit dhe nentekstit qe percjell.


« Delja Leshatake»

 Na lumturove o dele e dheut,

me beeeene qe ben,

por ajo qe eshte mbreselenese,

eshte leshi i pashem,

qe ndriçon.


Qysh nga titulli e kuptojme qe s'kemi te bejme me nje dele dosido. Autorja kerkon te nenvizoje faktin qe delja, objekti i frymezimit te saj, qenkesh "leshatake" (ne te kundert me mjaft dele te tjera, te cilat dukshem nuk jane te tilla).

Vargu "Na lumturove o dele e dheut", na ben me dije qe sentimentet qe do te pershkruhen ketej e tutje do te jene pozitive, ndoshta fale atmosferes se festave te fundvitit. Mirepo, autorja s'mjaftohet me kaq: ajo na kumton se eshte pikerisht tingulli, a gjuha e deles, ajo qe me se shumti e lumturon.

Tri vargjet e fundit te strofes se pare (kemi te bejme me poezi ne varg te lire, ku megjithate ndjehen aty-ketu konsonancat dhe asonancat), na shtojne informacionin rreth objektit poetik. Behet fjale pra, per nje "lesh te pashem", i cili, mes te tjerave, edhe "ndricon". E patem pak te veshtire te shkoqisnim sifare figurativizmi, cka nga ana tjeter perben edhe nje vecori te rendesishme te autores se re. Mund te sygjeronim ndoshta nje peraferi me "Bashken e Arte" te mitologjise.


smiley Fin, me kerceu caji i malit syve...smiley

Mos te shplafte kurre mortja ! Degjove !

autorja permes vargjeve te saj na sjell aromen e nilit. megjithese frymezimi i saj lindi kur personazhi ne fjale, qe s'ka rendesi t'ia permendim emrin pasi cdokush e njeh, perdorte fjalen ''lesh'' vend e pa vend. dhe si per cudi, flladi i nilit, kopshtet buze tij, delja qe simbolizon personazhin, dhe me ne fund leshi ( ah sa do te doja nje tjeter golf kashmiri) e plotesojne poezine e saj dhe e bejne aq te arrire.

jardin, ky zambak i brishte  ne buze te nilit apo te senes, na paraqitet e fresket me shqipen e saj te arrire.

sa mire e njeh Egjiptin, se me francen s'na habit jo. pergezime!

edhe lagjen zamalek biles, me te shtrenjten ne kairo qe emrin e ka nga zemblaku i korces, se prej andej ishte mbreti.

alba 1, ke qene ne Zamalek? I kishe pare rojet meato rrobat e shplara kur meshtesnin pushket qyt me qyt dhe uleshin e hanin " ful" ?
Nga Haxhi Hafiz Zemblaku.Dhe xhamia perballe Semiramiz Hotel ka emrin e tij

Une ndjej arome Leshi e jo Nili....po fajin ma ka hunda ime e shtremet qe ne vogeli.

Une e theksoj se Nili proklamon a ben manifest per  lirine e femres per te ekspozuar veten te lire sic e ka bere natyra, e pa depiluar. Finisterre shkon me tej dhe na ben te shohim se ajo delja tregon pjellori e ngrohtesi ne kete atmosfere fundviti kur ne nuk sakrifikojme qingja a dele por duam te rrime ngrohte dhe pak te dembelosur. 
Sa per leshin qe ndricon, sic thekson edhe Finisterre, mund te guxoj pa ofenduar askend te konstatoj se leshi ne zonat ekzogjene eshte me i ndritshem.

" Rrihet ketu duhan?"

Sa mire qe ma kujtuat, i nderuar! Faleminderit! 

Ju lutem, le ta gezojme te gjithe perderisa e kemi kaq afer e na mban ngohte, sidomos ne periudhe fundviti kaq larg zhveshjes ne plazhet e veres.

smiley Hem, duhani na mban ngrohte? E ndiej si po shperhapet hermetizmi i Kopshtijes mes nesh.

duhet ta kete fjalen per djegien e duhanit gjate tymosjes se tij, i cili prodhon nxehtesi.  Ka rene sh. debore ketej keto dite, dhe nuk ben t'i shperdorojme burimet e energjise, sado te vogla.

Poezine qe dha Zhardeni
U tun vendi e gjith baseni
Ja qindisi atij " qeni"
Lekuren qe pat zhagreni
Se u nis nga delet " puna"
Si nga ujevara shkuma
Futur leshi kollotumba
Zbardhur fije si pellumba
Dicka po vinte nder veshi
Kish ndodhur nje konflik, ndeshi
Reagimet flake i ndezi
Nje konflikt, nje ... pune leshi

Dele e dheut, dele e dheut,

ajo beeeja qe ben,

ai leshi qe krijon.

Je e çmuar dele e njome,

per produktivitetin,

dhe per ate lesh qe nuk te mbaron.


Perseritja e figures "dele e dheut" behet sigurisht per te rritur impaktin dramatik, por edhe per te perforcuar penelatat e informacionit, i cili, sic thame me siper, eshte tejet i rendesishem per autoren. Ne gjuhen e perditshme ne perdorim figura te tilla si "dele e perendise", te huajtura merret vesh nga parabolat biblike, mirepo ne kete rast delja eshte "e dheut", qe po ashtu mund te lidhej me nje tjeter figure te te folmes sic "burre i dheut". Autorja e re ka vepruar kesisoj me nje teknike letrare stilistike te njohur si cut-up, perdorur fillimisht nga dadaistet. Perndryshe, ajo gjithashtu ka dashur te na binde qe fjala eshte pikerisht per nje kafshe barngrenese, e cila jeton dhe ushqehet ne toke, ne "dhe" pra, dhe jo ne uje.

"Je e cmuar dele e njome,/ per produktivitetin...": vini re me sa elegance fjala "e njome" i kundervihet fjales se huaj "produktivitet". Guxuam ta zevendesonim ate me shqipen "prodhimtari", por jo, efekti nuk ishte ai i pari. Nderkohe guxuam te mendonim se mos ndoshta "dele e njome" nenkuptonte nje qengj, gjithashtu nje figure qendrore ne simbologjine biblike, por me se shumti rame dakort qe ndoshta "i njome" ne kete rast mund te jete perdorur si sinonim "i lagur". Packa, qe sic theksuam me siper, delja qenkesh "e dheut" dhe jo "e ujit"...


Ne fakt, kur kam thene "dele e dheut" nuk kam pasur ne mend "burrin" por te "bukuren e dheut." Ndoshta ka te beje me anshmerine time feministe, me specifikisht me deshiren per te ridikulizuar figuren shoviniste dhe paternaliste dhe t'a shnderroj ne te ashtequajturin 'seksi i dobet', qe simbolizon delja. Ndoshta kam shkuar pertej qellimit feminist te moderuar dhe kam percjellur deshirat subkoshiente per te mposhtur 'seksin e forte' me ane te shnderrimit te njeriut ne kafshe jo-njerezore.

Poezia ime perveç ironise qe kam dashur te percjell, eshte ne te vertete nje vizion i botes per karnalitetin dhe banalitetin qe na rrethon. Qielli dhe bota pertej jetes nuk ekzistojne ne universin e deles te denuar me leshin mekatar. Shpetim nuk ka nga dheu i vrashte, ka vetem mundesi per te korrigjuar mekatet me ane te pastrimit qe ia lejon uji i paster i lumit. Nderhyrja qe bej si ze lirik duke i sygjeruar deles te notoje ne lume, e bej per t'i dhene mundesine per te naviguar ne ujerat pertej tij ne nje det te tere eksplorimi emocionesh dhe intelekti. Vetem aty delja mund te arrije thellesine qe i nevojitet per te arritur nje gjendje ekzistence dinjitoze dhe shpetim nga graviteti i leshit mekatar dhe dheut denues. Ne fund, eshte e qarte qe delja do te qendroje ne dheun e mallkuar dhe nuk do te kete asnje shpetim per te. 

Njomesia e deles simbolizon dobesine e te qenurit njeri me gjithe bukurine dhe kastigimin qe i behet nga nena natyre. 

 smiley Psikoanalize nepermjet nje 'poezie' ne mes te dites duke henger sandwich me majoneze dhe flete pule. Eksperience surreale por e keshillueshme...


Mos valle 'pula' simbolizon brishtesine femerore nen daren e sanduicit mashkullor modern?

Fletet e pules dhe sanduiçi simbolizojne vetem kazualitet ushqimor ne mungese te kohes dhe deshires per te pergatitur ushqim normal. Pastaj, pulen dhe natyren e femres nuk do t'i shoqeroja bashke ne perfytyrimin tim per lidhjet femer-mashkull. Ne asnje perfytyrim tjeter ne fakt.

Mos te lutem finisterre. Analiza jote po legjitimon te shemtuaren, antiestetiken. Dhe une si manar qe ndjek persiatjen tende. Si adami me even e kafshoj dhe une mollen e mekatit. Sec paska nje shije ndjellese kjo corba jardinit. Fale saj dot kuptova qe e bukura si koncept qenka dyskajore. Skaji tradicional qe ne njohim pra e bukura klasike, dhe ky skaji humneror, kjo gropa e zeze kozmike qe ka qendisur ne menyre perfekte jardin, ky hon i thelle ne trajte gdheje qe ne makabritetin e vet te sinqerte mbart dhe nje carmatosje brilante. 

lesh si i joti,

nuk gjindet kund,

eshte bazuar ne nje kenge tradicionale korcare. me pelqen eleganca e fjales "kund" qe ka zevendesuar fjalen e rende "dynja". 

mos harro origjinen shkodrane te Jardines

delja shkodrane ka qene me nam, e njohur si "leshgjate", por besoj qe frymezimi, megjithe "dheun" e permendur, nuk ka shume shtysa gjeografike. por mund qe gaboj.

po pra, kane pase folur dikur per disa rraca te mira delesh ne ato ane, por rendesia e gjeografise lidhet me teper me fjalen:  - kund -  kundrejt - dynja .

ja, qe te jemi pak konkret.

kjo e para, ketu ne qender, ilustron patjeter Delen tone te poezise.

Thua keshtu te jete katandisur edhe Idrizi yne!

mire, se vjen Idrizi ta jep vete ai pergjigjen

do me marre me sy te keq. po iki me mire, naten!

Te personalizosh tek une kete frymezim Biblik...Grigja , Delet e Perendise  etj etj , me vjen keq per dy pena si JU qe keni kaq shikim te ngushte .

Frymezimi Bibliki Kopshtares nuk kufizohet thjesht tek Leshi . Leshi i Deles ...Ky eshte problemi ...dhe Jo Leshi se lesh ka edhe LeftKOPEJA .

Emigranti ben nje perpjekje per ta perdorur Leshin nga Korca si nje Objekt frymezimi...shkalle .. Them se je anash Emigrant jo Larg ! Behet fjale per Lesh tjeter .

Pak sa e nderuara fin ka mundur ti afrohet nje analize ku vet kopshtarja ndihet si e rrethuar me lesh ne frymezimin e saj . Ndihet ngrohte , ndihet e mbrojtur , nuk e lag shiu e rrebeshi ( edhe keto fenomene biblike ) etj etj . Ka pas dhe keqkuptime duke e lidhur Leshesine e Kopshtares me deshiren per Depilim .Nuk besoj se eshte keshtu . Kur vjen pua per Lakuriqesi ajo ha PULE ...Pra "Objekte te Qimta ". Perse nuk thote qe ha "Objekte te leshta " Dhe ketu del edhe nje shtemengje nga dallimi midis Leshit dhe Qimes

Une bera nje pauze per te lexuar se ku do shkonin mejtimet per Leshin e Kopshtares e cila ne shpjegimet e saj per Leshin , me duket se ka rene ne nje gabim duke e quajtur " Token te Mallkuar" . Pastaj per psikanalizen qe shoqeron xeberthimin Leshor do kisha deshire te nxirrte ne pah nje lloj Leshi shume cilesor te njohur ne Laberi si Leshi Rude nga e cila ka marreedhe vete Delja " Dele Rude" Ketu ne se me personalizonte me Leshin do me vinte keq si Lab qe nuk ka pat Parasysh Leshin Rude . Shoh qe ka edhe tone zbutese !!!! Duket ka mbritur ne perfundimin qe thote Populli

 Lidhur pazgjidhmerisht me Lesht e njeri Tjetrit .

Ec aty Kopshtare smiley

Delja rude (variant zhardinor)


dele dele moj dele bukur 

qe fushes endesh me hare

manushaqe luledele

Te gjitha ti i ha

E bazuar ne nje kenge korçare?  Hehe, t'es jalous de mon esprit poétique! smiley

Si thote moli diku

pa forme eshte qielli

si tru idioti

mendoj se autorja perdor figuren ''dele e dheut'', thjesht per nje qellim fisnik. ajo deshiron qe mesazhi i saj i bute si delja te shkoje ne veshin e personazhit dhe ai te ndryshoje. jo pa qellim ajo perdor ''delen'' ne vend te ''ujkut'', pasi dhe ujku ka lesh.  kete e ben qe mos ta egersoje personazhin por vec ta edukoje. te shohim a do ja arrij qellimit ky zambak i dlire ne buze te lumit?smiley

ne te vertete motivi i ujkut ndihet shume i forte.

sa per nje hint (se ka shume te tille) ai vjen pikerisht permes leshit konfondues, sepse:

"ujku qimen e nderron, por zakonin s'e harron". qimja<-->leshi, there you go.

pra kjo poezi me shume se qengjit, i kushtohet (fshehurazi) ujkut!

dmth ti thua qe idrisi eshte nje ujk i fshehur. ah, une e dija se e kishe mik. as jardin s'shkoi kaq larg!smiley

ujk nen lekure deleje, pra. me vjen keq, por ky eshte vetem niveli i dyte ne shumekuptimshmerine e krijimit. nen ujkun vjen dicka tjeter.

te vije vete ujku nen lekure deleje dhe te ballafaqohet.

te thashe, nen ujkun fshihet dicka tjeter...

lodhe mendjen, lodhe.

Edhe kete "ujku ka lesh"smiley nuk e kishim degjuar. Une nga proverbat shqiptare e di qe ujku ka qime. Ne pergjithesi xhanem. Se ne vende te caktuara mund te kete dhe lesh. 

Ne kete rast te caktuar dyshoj se ujku ka floke, biles i ka floket e gjate me nicke te ngaterruar si thashethemnaje qe prej France citon tekse vetem ne anglisht.

Kurse per delet e zotit ne pergjithsi kisha kete:


He tani, prohisja pake ti " azate" !

RONI?....iiiii! Mos bjer per gjume se u be leshi ....

ah ah, roni s'ia thek nga poezia. duhet kulture e larte te kuptosh gjithe keto simbole; dele, ujk e me rradhe ...

Dele e vogel, dele e vogel,
laje leshin se po kalbet,
shko tek lumi dhe noto,
te ben mire.

Nuk e di, nje skene te tille me dele qe lahen ne lum, nuk ma kish zene syri gjekund. Mjeshtre e abstraktes qenke o Jardin!

shko tek lumi dhe noto,
te ben mire.

E mrekullueshme!

nje dele qe lan leshin e vet ka paralel vetem figurat e letersise se madhe dhe folklorit, ku dikush sjell me vete koken e vet!

I vetmi qe ka arrit te kapi dicka te ngjashme (me lope qe lahen ne lume) eshte Kosturica te skena e fundit e Underground. Po e gjeta do ta sjell.

vajta me vrap mos e shihja te Netflixi, po s'e kishte. Emir Kusturica dilte si aktor ne nja dy filma, njeri me zhuljete binoklen. go figure.

Nuk e ke pa "Underground"???

e kam pa. po shume salce ballkani ka dreqi. te pakten per ne, qe e dim c'mysybet jena.

ueee ca behet ketu, "hedh nje cop jardin dy dele ne lume, e mblidhen 20 te mencur te gjejne leshin e tyre....smiley

21 smiley

epo mire, meqense u ngaterrova edhe une, 21.smiley

e meqe me ra rruga ketej, po bej nje analize te shkurter letraresmiley na ben pershtyje lidhja e vecante qe ka **autori/autorja me lumin.. Nil ne nick, lume ne poezi..smiley

**kam vene re qe jardinit ketu i drejtohen sikur te jete femer... hemm, nuk jam shume i sigurte. nuk kam ndonje prove, por me duket personazh misterioz dhe i/e djallezuar. shkurt, instikti me thote qe jardin eshte mashkull.

ncuk finisterre...jane vetem 10 cope, te cilet kembehen si kembet e dhise smiley

apo kembet e deles-per mos t'ja prishur qejfin e anti-poezise, Zhardines smiley

Oh my God! Nuk e kisha kap kete poezine e dyte te Karrotes. Por ama nuk mund te ma heqi njeri meriten qe isha une i pari qe e shenjova me gisht talentin e saj tek vjersha e pare, qe tani mora vesh qe i qenka fshire nga administrata. Desha te them ketu qe uroj nga zemra qe administratorit/es qe e ka fshire i rafte buka nga dora, me anen e gjalpit poshte.

Sa per Karroten Kopshtare: "Suksese Karrote, ne krijimtarine tende me lesh a pa lesh, si ta kesh!"

smiley si lesh mziu lulebora smiley ( e mbeshtet edhe emo kete mendimin e plagjiatures, pak me siper)... por te kenaq smiley sa here qe çel ne saksi!!

Haha!! Nuk ma morri mendja qe do te kishte pasur aq shume kritika per poezine 5 minutshe timen. Por keni bere shume gabime ne interpretim. Eshte e vertete qe ka nje djall nen masken e deles (ujku) por eshte nje djall i pergjithshem, jo specifik si Idrizi. Ky i fundit eshte delja qe une kam zgjedhur ( nje nder me te keqijte) te sakrifikoj ne kritiken time qe i bej peshqeve qe perdorin gjuhe te pakendshme dhe fyese. 

Pastaj leshi (perveç sensit imediat te perdorur) siç e kam thene me siper jane fjalet denigruese, pa sens, dhe fyese te Idrizit qe tregojne mungesen e respektit per ate tjetrin. Ndersa kur shkruaj qe "leshi ndriçon," e kam fjalen per mendjen e ndriçuar te Idrizit qe e kam percaktuar disa here si brilante, e xixelluar, e zgjuar etj. Pra fjalet percjellin intelektin e tij.


 haha Jardin e madhe. Pasi theu Tabu-ne e sexit, me poezine e deles leshatore , thyen dhe Totem-in e fisit leshpunues .Idrisi jo me kot e quan ppu-ne Derstila e tjerrjes se leshit/fjaleve dhe Jardin, ironikisht  e ka perzgjedhur ate si  delja e dheut/qingji perendise qe sakrifikohet smiley

Ne fakt perzgjedhja e deles kundrejt qingjit ka te beje me mospelqimin tim per simbolizmin hyjnor. Por sikur t'a kisha zgjedhur qingjin, do ti kishte dhene nje efekt parodik anti-poezise, dhe do t'a kishte perfunduar kryevepren persembari.smiley 

 Jam i bindur qe Idrizi me stilin e tij kalorsiak do ti pergjigjet poezise me nje poezi. Nuk di kush do jete kryefigura, bashmetafora me nji llaf, leshi apo ndonje send tjeter smiley

nuk besoj qe do kete nje pergjigje. cdo gje mund te ndodhe, por per momentin nuk besoj. sec ka nji qetesi mas furtune e gjitha tani, bregu i shkalafit nga dallget, te cilat jan shndrru ne valeza te lehta, qe lepijne bregun, si qingji delen... tinguj per gjume... shshshsh... shshshsh...

Nuk ka dhe nuk do te kete me te vetmen arsye se Kopshtarja , eshte nje Talent Leshtor . Deri tani kulmi kishte arritur qe Leshi te perdorej si nevoje Fizike dhe jo shpirterore . Sic e thote dhe vet , po te kishte perdorur Figuren e qingj-ujkut , Ku Leshi ? Per me teper nje figure e perdorur nga Politika !

 Nje grusht Lesh nga qingji nuk ka vleren e perfytyrimit te nje Thes me Lesh nga Delja . Dhe nisur nga teza  filosofike qe cileson " sasia shndrohet ne cilesi " ...ajo arritit te krijoje kete Perle Poetike te anti-poezise me Lesh qe ndricon !!!!

Mund te kete nje nderhyrje ne se dikush per hir te SASISE te beje pyetjen ...

Perse Kopshtarja e Nilit nuk zgjodhi DASH si sasi Leshi ? Ceshtje Seksi ? Veshtire te argumentohet sepse Kopshtarja ka dhene shembuj qe sekset desheron ti barazoje . 

Ta kaloj dikush Rubikonin ...

 na preve krahet..dmth shpresat..kisha bindjen se po kurdisje dicka. Kete tolerance shembullore Jardina mund ta perktheje si dorezim pa kushte, si triumf i kauzes se asaj antileshatore. Poezia me poezi kerrehet si plumbi me plumb. leshi eshte mes leshit kam qendruar/dhe jam duke u perveluar...

Duket qe ke qene indiferent i nderuar Spiritus ndaj thllesise dhe gjeresi - gjatesise se Leshit te Xhardines .Leshi Kopshtares sapo ka ndezur Idete . Mund te kalonim dhe ne shkretira per Leshin e Deveve ( Egjypt-thua kot eshte NIL ???? ), por them se akoma nuk kemi perfunduar me leshin e Dashit . Kemi edhe Lesh tjeter jo aq Hyjnor si i Dhive dhe Sqeperve . Pra Lesh vendas !

Vet kopshtarja ka krijuar  nje turbulence me metoden e dy pohime bejne nje mohim 

prandaj duje leshin,

se eshte i bukur.

dhe me Poshte 

Leshi = fjale Koti 

Duhen akoma kritika cilesore per te zbuluar ne krijimtrine e Kopshtares poziten e Vertete te Leshit ! Na ndihmoni ketu te jemi ne nje Linje me krijimtarine e Kopshtares jashte personalizimit Idris Lesh Delja kunder LefTKOPESE Idris Ferra . Dhe e cuditeshme ...Ne ferra Delet lene Lesh ?????

Idriz..ishe gjigand. Tani je skalitur ne menyre imortale ne nje krijim qe u kthye menjehere ne klasik. Mjaft na bere kakerdhi. Tuc mat jardin. 

Shume ton autoritar Koko....Dhe krahasimin e ben adoleshent ...kakerdhi smiley

Ketu flitet per Dele , dhe duke vene re nje Paaftesi Tuajen te dalloni nje produkt  te vecorishem , lexojme shperthime si tuajat te bartura nga nje Kritike e terminologji emocionalistesh deri atje sa harrini te ngaterroni produktet e Gjese se ciles ju referua Kopshtarja . Nga Lesh ne Kakerdhi ..!!!!!

NQS problemet dolen dhe shoket te mbyllin debatet , kete mund ta thote jo Kushdo . Por Vetem Kopshtarja me nje Flm ! 

2014sinjal i MADH Frymezimesh Poetike . Urime PPU smiley

Mungon shigjeta .Ju pergjigja KOKOS smiley

Leji pordhet. Ishe anonim virtual. Sot je epiqender e nje krijimi klasik. Kete aftesi kane gjenite. Asnje se njihte emrin Sonja deri sa e perdori kadareja ne nje roman dhe vuuu qeneria pastaj. Keshtu u skalit dhe emri idris. 

Avash o burre se e bone Idrizin sikur me qene cizme meksikane me kale, nga ato qe bente Koci.


Moza ca eshte kjo? Poezi?

            "Every one of us human beings has two minds. One is totally ours, and it is like a faint voice that always brings us order, directness, purpose, The other mind is a foreign installation. It brings us conflict, self-assertion, doubts, hopelessness: it's ourselves as the me-me center of the world.We are not naturally petty and contradictory. Our pettiness and contradictions are, rather, the result of a transcendental conflict that afflicts every one of us, but of which only sorcerers are painfully and hopelessly aware: the conflict of our two minds! One is our true mind, the product of all our life experiences, the one that rarely speaks because it has been defeated and relegated to obscurity. The other, the mind we use daily for everything we do, is a foreign installation. 

      To resolve the conflict of the two minds is a matter of intending it. Sorcerers beckon intent by voicing the word intent loud and clear. Intent is a force that exists in the universe. When sorcerers beckon intent, it comes to them and sets up the path for attainment, which means that sorcerers always accomplish what they set out to do.
      Intent can be called, of course, for anything, but sorcerers have found out, the hard way, that intent comes to them only for something that is abstract. That's the safety valve for sorcerers; otherwise they would be unbearable. Beckoning intent to resolve the conflict of your two minds, or to hear the voice of your true mind, is not a petty or arbitrary matter. Quite the contrary; it is ethereal and abstract, and yet as vital to you as anything can be."

The Active Side of Infinity

Wow Lost, je i pari njeri qe une njoh qe i ben reference Castanedes. Do isha kurioz nese e le lexuar te gjithin, apo ky liber te ka rene ne dore rastesisht.

"Piketakimi" me Castaneda-n s'ka qene rastesisht. Nuk ja kam lexuar te gjitha veprat ende. 

Me behet qejfi. Une jam i mahnitur prej tij. Prej dy vjetesh praktikoj (megjithese me "periudha pushimi") edhe magical passes.

I am glad to hear, brother.

Same here. Shume kurioz per eksperienca personale lidhur me te dhe shume i gatshem per cdo lloj diskutimi.

              smiley  smiley  smiley

E pelqyeshme, sidomos paragrafi i pare pa magjistare.


Heretik, nese nuk e ke lexuar, nuk mund ta komentosh bazuar ne fragmente. Magjistari qe kupton ai eshte dicka krejt ndryshe nga konvencionalja qe fluturon me fshese apo nxjerr lepuj nga kapelja.

Ne fakt nuk e kam lexuar, megjithkete edhe pa lexuar une dyshoj tek te gjithe tipat e magjistareve, me perjashtim te atyre te cirkut qe te pakten zbavitin kur nxjerrin lepuj nga kapelja.

Edhe nje here tjeter ai paragraf eshte i vertete, kushdo ta kete thene. Pra chapeau magjistarit me kapele ne kete rast.


Mos u lodh fare Heretik. Thjesht do te te keshilloja ta lexoje. 

Kjo poezi mund te radhitet ne zhanrin e poezise bashkekohore ku autori/ja nuk e ka pare asnjehere ne jeten  e vet subjektin te cilin e trajton.

Pos tjerash kritiket letrare mendojne se kjo poezi permban ne vete edhe nota nga Sindromi i Stokholmit, ku autorja i thurr lavde ose shpreh emocione pozitive karshi pengmarresit te kohes dhe hapesires se saj virtuale.

Lavderimin qe i bej deles e bej me ironi Kurial. Pastaj kritiket shikojne ate qe kane qejf.

jardin, a ke nje blog tendin ti?

Pastaj kritiket shikojne ate qe kane qejf.



Si flutur eshte, si flutur. smiley Nuk i ngjit qimja (le me leshi). 

e ndihmon Lira tani. per inat e ben, se kshu e di qe s'ka te drejte.

Ashtu m'u duk edhe mua. Me kete veprim sec me kujtoi ate letren e inatosur te Bozhenes qe shkruante

"O harbut i poshter, o i pashpirt e rezil!

Zoti tetar Krzhizhi erdhi me leje ne Prage dhe une kerceva me te "Tek Kocanet". Ai me tregoi se ti, gjoja, kercen ne Bugjejovice tek "Bretkosa e Gjelber" me nje rrospi idiote dhe se mua me ke lene pergjithenje. Dije se kete leter po e shkruaj ne nevojtore mbi nje derrase prane vrimes dhe se mes nesh ka marre fund gjithcka.

Ish-Bozhena jote, "

Me kete JU Pf po aludoni per shtojzovallen ? E perse i duhet asaj nje lekure Delje siper ?

Mundemi te pohojme kjo poezia e " brishte" e Zhardenes, qe dhe mundemi ta titullojme " Balada e Leshit", mbushi boshllekun ne krijimi specifik te gjinive letrare te misioneve me objektiva te caktuara, te mikut tone Pjerit. Kjo poezi vertet qe nuk mund te vleresohet ne shkallen siperore sa i perkete ideve, por nga ana e figurave, mbresave mbi lexuesit, dhe sidomos anes ekspresive mbi sensivitetin, te nje materiali krejt te zakonshem sic eshte leshi, ka bere nje revolucion ne moblizimin e basenit.Kete vetem Pjeri e kishte arrire.Tani une voten edhe pse te fshehte prej Ronit, por do ta hedh aty ku e ka vendin

O Jardin, si nuk pertove m'qafsh. Po 1 fjali me 3 fjale Moj I kishe qendis ( meqe doje so bad ti thoshe dicka ) ske fantazi per poedhi. Mos e bej me, plssss don't! 

Haha! Jo do te t'a bej qejfin! smiley

jardin jardin, je si nje zambak buze lumit qe i jep freskine kaq te munguar ketij blogu. mos u tut jardin, nje grup shqiposh tere djallezira nga ato qe ti s'i njeh dhe s'do t'i njohesh, ke perpara.

Jardin kisha i fare respekti per ty si individ kontemporan qe jeton ne zenit te oksidentit. Kisha them, der ne momentin qe lexova ato bicim vargjesh qe i ke krijuar idrizit. Them vargje dhe shpirti me sembon per ofendimin qe i bej vargut si entitet kur e paralelizoj me ate corbe amorfe, uluritese, mediokre, makabre der ne therje qe bere ti dje. Ne emer te ter atyre qe duan poezine, te lutem mos. Fale teje se shoh me dot poezine si me pare. Ti pate te une te njejtin efekt qe midnight in paris pati per kinematografine. 

smiley Mbaroj per Midnight in Paris, per kinematografine smiley dhe per kete kengen qe me ka drejtuar tek ky artist.


Natyrisht, gjakataret koha i le pas dore.

Vijne Homeret dhe luftojne me njeri-tjetrin.
Pandehin se vriten per lavdine e Iliadave.

Frederik Rreshpja

qeka pak si poezia e jardin kjo:

natyrisht, ujqrit koha i le pas dore

vijne delet dhe luftojne me njeri-tjetrin

pandehin se vriten per lirine e ''peshkut pa uje''


Po kthehen barinjte por henen e harruan ndezur ne mal.
Yjet vene qirinj neper udhet e zogjve,
mbi delet e heshtura.

Kur isha femije bisedoja me delet,
qe me flisnin gjera te mencura.
Cudi! Kur rritemi dhente nuk flasin me.

Frederik Rreshpja

Eh, kur flasin lopet, heshtin dhente! smiley

Shi hene

Si arlekin qe del per shetitje,
ne kopshtin e harruar te feminise,
hena e pikelluar neper re
shkel mbi deget e shirave.

Liqeni i vetmuar ne breg te nates,
shqetesohet ne krahet e eres
dhe thelle sirena e dallges se kalter
loton mbi fytyren e fjetur te legjendes.

Yjet ne asfalt si perendim i thyer.
Dhe plepat si murgjer te zinj.
Fshehur pas drureve diku pergjon
vrasesi i vjeter, trishtimi.

Eh, mundet qe thika e trishtimit
diku perdhe ka per te me lene,
fshehur nen nje perendim te thyer,
fshehur nen shira hene...

Frederik Rreshpja

Cesh me ky rreshpa? Cjan mer keta imitues te rendomte. 


Qe femije e kam kuptuar se kisha lindur
i mallkuar me art.
Gjerat i shihja ndryshe:
Neper shirat e vdekur
peshqit fluturonin drejt cerdheve, te yjet.
Ne vend te bores binin zogj ne cdo dru.
Era si keter brente deget.
Qante mbi mua nena, shenmeria ime. Ave nena ime!
Mos e paste njeri kete fat!

Kam dashuruar nje Aferdite ne Olimpin e trendafilave.
Pastaj erdhe ti tere ikje.
Me vone vije vetem neper endrra, si perendite ilire.
Keshtu iku dhe rinia, filigrami i djalerise,
i mallkuar me art.
Mos e paste njeri kete fat!

Tani qe po vdes enderroj vetem nje kryq te koka,
dhe te harrohem, se nuk dua qe edhe pas vdekjes
te me ndjeke mallkimi i artit.
Mos e paste njeri kete fat!

Po kur te vdes, portreti im ka per t'u shfaqur neper gjethe,
Se une kam patur miqesi me cdo dru.
Ne stinen kur bien gjethet
do te bien edhe syte e mi.
Tani e tutje shirat do te jene lotet e mi.
Mos e paste njeri kete fat!

Frederik Rreshpja

Ajo beeja qe ti ben'. 

Gjigande fare. Shmangja e fjales blegerime eshte magjike. Shkurt, pa shume lulka. Pastaj bomba fare fjala 'produktivitet'. Pa fjale. 

Shoqeria Fabian, Enferr Hoxha, Idrizi...


Ja sesi intuita shpesh zbulon me nje fije gjenialitet me mijera fije te dukshme e te padukshme dhe qe ne nuk i shohim, te zene sic jemi me preokupimet e perditshme.

Prandaj merr kuptim edhe larja e leshit, sepse vertet as delja as ujku nuk e lajne leshin e tyre, por ujku duhet ta laje leshin e deles qe ka veshur qe te duket dele e paster dhe e qashter.

E shof qe arti i peshqve te rinj, i paska rone ne sy edhe qeverise.

Kjo nuk eshte nisme e re. Mund te gugllosh psh "Kryeministri Rama takon artistet qe jetojne jashte Shqiperise".

Ne kete pike e pranojme qe nuk na kishin rene ne sy te gjithe. 

Do perpiqemi te jemi me sycelet kur te laje grate e fshatit leshin ne lume. Se aty mblidhen dele, ujqer e artiste. Dmth ka pune edhe per Ministrin e Permrencem edhe per ate te Kultures edhe per ate te Industrise Bujqesoro-Blegtorale.

 "Na lumturove o dele e dheut,
me beeeene qe ben,
por ajo qe eshte mbreselenese,
eshte leshi i pashem,
qe ndriçon"

na lumturove thote autorja. Vini re , lumturove jo gezove. Lumturove mbart brenda grimca hyjnore, kurse gezove do ishte shume e thate, tokesore. 

Mbreselenese' thote autori. Term aspak poetik, te kap mat. Dhe lidheza 'qe' qe smund te ishte ndryshe. Dhe 'por" ne fillim te vargut qe krijon nje kundervenie qe e pergatit lexuesin per nje kreshendo qe nuk ndodh kurre. Pasi vargu tjeter hapet me fjalen e rendomte 'eshte'. Cfryhet tullumbaci ne menyre gjeniale. Po ama vetem per pak. Se menjehere autori perdor per leshin epitetin 'i pashem'. Lexuesi pret epitete konvencional di psh lesh i bute apo lesh i cmuar. Por jo, lesh i pashem, pashem eshte epitet qe perdoret per frymoret, dhe ne menyre gjeniale autori asocon delen me atribute njerezore. 

Dhe ne fund fare bomba 'qe ndricon'. Prape fjalia nis me lidhez dhe mbaron po aq shpejt. Ndricon, ja aq, shkurt, sakte. Nese der tani autori te ka carmatosur e ti ka ulur pantallonat der ne gjunje, tani ti merr fare e ti hedh ne gremine. Ti ndjehesh si gdhe ne befasine e krijuar. Qershi mbi torte. 

ti merr fare e ti hedh ne gremine

dmth t'i ben sputnik 

Qeke dhe ti "dit shiu " me 50% sot . Ne na urdheroi Bora . E ca te bojme ...

Kompjuteri shoke Kompjuteri ( me theks tek E )

There is a voice that doesn’t use words,


Everyone says they're open-minded. Everyone tries to accept people who are different from them. But the truth is,people don't react well when they find out that you're......undead

"Angustia," Carmen Ollé

Quién vive
quién como yo respira el aire hediondo
de los bares 
Un hombre una mujer
dos hombres
tomados de la mano
la voz del tabernero 
suspira al monzón
maloliente de las divinas 
que voluptuosas y magníficas
siempre vestidas de escarlata
estas mujeres que se han declarado el amor
abiertamente esta noche

¡Vengan bufones! 
¡Chsss! malandrines
ebrios de baba
ebria como sus dueñas la noche nos arrastra 
sus gruesas palabras no alteran mis oídos
permisivos gracias a Dios
a quién más sino
el ruido que se descompone aquí dentro
en mí
es mi harto corazón 
no es mi cuento si amanece
el sol no me va ni me viene
chillen morsas
ante la Virgen loca

“I'm a Foetus”


What else did you think I was?

Yeah someday I may become as ego-maniacally stupendous as yourself

but till then I'm indentured to the velvety realm of my mother's grotto.


She's a slut

Fucks anyone she meets


But she's good with food

crisps, mozzarella di bufala, foie gras

she shoves them all down her throat

not one to discriminate my biological creator


Stop with that metal piece

you beast


you're sucking my brain out of place.


Only the water and the constellation of dirt around me knows my suffering

Only my mother doesn't.


She's a slut

Takes anyone in

She's made the air foul and turgid


But you Outsider are grinning your teeth out,

aren't you?


You see me as a ball

with which you can play


I'm made out of strong filaments of natural tissue but I’m



Outsider get me out of here

Rancid air

the Bitch is Dead.





“I'm a Foetus”


What else did you think I was?

Yes someday I may become as egomaniacally stupendous as yourself

but till then I'm indentured to the velvety realm of my mother's grotto.


She's a slut

Fucks anyone she meets


But she's good with food

crisps, mozzarella di bufala, foie gras

she shoves them all down her throat

not one to discriminate my biological creator


Stop with that metal piece

you beast


you're sucking my brain out of place.


Only the water and the constellation of dirt around me knows my suffering

Only my mother doesn't.


She's a slut

Takes anyone in

She's made the air foul and turgid


But you Outsider are grinning your teeth out,

aren't you?


You see me as a ball

with which you can play


I'm made out of strong filaments of natural tissue but I’m



Outsider get me out of here

Rancid air

the Bitch is Dead.



"Shtatezania ne konceptimin tim, dhe besoj te autorit, nuk sjell shume emocione te bukura per nenen dhe femijen, por vetem vuajtje fizike. Neqoftese ka ndonje aspekt pozitiv, eshte pikerisht fundi i shatezanise, çlirimi nga barra, "


Jardin,nuk durohesh per kete qe ke thene,momenti i shtatzanise eshte mrekullia dhe privilegji i femres,jo vetem kur femija eshte krijese dashurie,por femra edhe per krijesen e violences gjen forca te vazhdoje shtatzanine,sinqerisht me vjen keq per ato femra qe skan pasur fatin e madh te jene nena,dhe ta uroj edhe ty,dhe do shikosh ndryshimin radikal brenda teje,me sa shume dashuri do shikosh jo vetem femijen tend por te gjithe boten,sa sa pjekuri dhe embelsi do hyje ne shpirtin tend!

me termat-njeriu i lire.seksi ilire ne çfare shoqerie je projektuar ti ,ne nje shoqeri te sterilizuar dhe me fetus te klonuar? thjesht jam kurioze,flm!


Xheni une nuk jam nene dhe keshtu qe nuk e di se çfare emocionesh ndjejne nenat kur jane shtatezene. Une shikoj ate qe kam pare tek grate, qe nuk pushojne se vjelluri dhe nuk rrijne dot rehat. Ky eshte thjeshte konceptimi im dhe nuk po bej propagande qe duhet te fillojme te gjithe te klonojme femijet. Ajo nuk me pelqen as mua por nuk mund te shpiki emocione dhe te bej aludime mbi ato pa  i perjetuar. Flas per ate qe konceptoj une. Mos e merr personalisht. krejt jashte nese e redukton shtatezenine e nje gruaje ne te vjella ,vuajtje.Momenti qe zgjat 9 muaj eshte magjik,edhe e vjella..sepse eshte e shkatuar ngaqe pret femije,nuk eshte semundje.Nje grua qe pret nje femije te desheruar ,konceptuar me dashuri e deshire eshte nje rreze ,qe emeton rreze.Nuk ka me sexi se nje grua shtatzene...nuk ka situate ma femerore...Nuk di gjendje me te bukur per nje grua...Pergjumja qe shoqeron gjendjen nuk eshte e tille, eshte jete ne nje dimension tjeter ,prej endrre....Mu duken llaftari çìshkruaje ma siper

U sulen nenat tani! smiley Eshte thjeshte nje vjershe, jo propagande! 

Jo nenat,femrat...eshte pak ndryshe....nuk hymnizova rolin e nenes po te femres...smiley

Pikerisht, si femer respektoje mendimin ndryshe te femres tjeter. Une e çmoj nenen dhe lidhjen dashurore te saj me femijen por ketu nuk kam folur aspak per kete gje. Keshtu qe mos e merr si nje deklarate kunder figures se femres smiley dhe shtatezanise. Kam trajtuar vetem aspektin e vuajtjes. 

ato siklete qe ti shef,jane kalimtare jardin,dhe subjektive,por sinqerisht, une, mqs je aq e re habitem se si te pelqejne ato vargje po ti referohemi temes qe po diskutohet,ka gjera me te bukura per te lexuar e dashur,dhe lere jeten te rrjedhe,mos u komplekso me vuajtjet e fetusit,sepse diku kam lexuar te kunderten, qe fetusi jeton shume mire ne barkun e nenes,dhe vdekja e tij fillon pak nga pak kur del ne jete, ne boten elire te gjithe thone diçka,ja e thashe dheune nje budallalliksmiley naten e mire Jardin!

Mire, meqe sikletet qenkan subjektive, po e le... 

Shume e çuditeshme qe jane fshire komentet e diskutimit midis Jardin dhe Spiritus. Nuk kishte asgje te keqe per t'u fshire, perkundrazi komentet e Spiritus ishin si kohe me pare, si me thene Spiritus i pare, i epokes se arte se Peshkut. Dje ishte mjaft vone, isha i lodh per tu thelluar, dhe i lash t'i lexoja te nesermen. Sot nuk i gjej me, gjej vetem pershtypje stomaku nga materniteti.

Cere boni kshu mer jau, leni komente banale dhe keqdashes te lloj llo derr-derri dhe fshini komente me vlere. Nuk stimulohet ne kete menyre leximi dhe shkrimi i komenteve.


Shume e vertete heretik,as une s'e kuptova ,madje s'kane lidhje fare komentet e meposhteme me nausea pa perlen e spiritusit!!!!!

Vuajtja fizike dhe nausea si pjese e saj jane realitete njerezore Xheni. Fakti qe ti nuk i shikon si tema te denja per t'u diskutuar  nuk do te thote qe une do t'i shmangem. 

uauuuuu e paskam une fajin se ti me lart thua qe"shtatzania nuk sjell emocione te bukura"? dai,fai la bravasmiley madje ta thash edhe mbreme,ta uroj te provosh shatzanine,bukurine,misterin,dhimbjen,lumturine,te trokiturat e fetusit,tak-tak,te lajmeron jeten qe jam ç'lumturi,te isha edhe nje here aq e re te provoja emocione te tilla...

tesoro,diskuto sa te duash,te admiroj madje per durimin dhe guximin qe ke per te perballuar peshqit me klas madje,pa ofendime,por , ki kujdes,arrin ne blasfemira te tilla qe sot çarapen do ta mbushja me qymyrsmiley smiley

Oh là là! Cfare te kam thene me siper? Mos e merr personalisht! Eshte vetem nje kendveshtrim! Une perqendrohem tek vuajtja dhe kriza ekzistenciale e njeriut jo tek dashuria e nenes per femijen dhe ansjelltas. 

e shef qe erdhe tek fjala ime"kriza egzistenciale.." a te thash qe fetusi eshte birinxhi ne bark te nenes,kriza fillon me mbrapa per te dy,kjo eshte jeta jardin,binomi dhimbje -dashuri eshte boshti ku te gjithe kapemi,nqs ti njef ndonje tjeter jete pa dhimbje,na e ofro,e mirepresim,kush eshte ai i verber qe s'i do syte? po largohem...


Xheni, e shoh qe thjeshte  po kontribuon perceptimin tend mbi natyren e jetes por ke dale nga tema (e vjershes) per te cilen kemi diskutuar une dhe Spiritus. Nuk jam kunder gjerave qe ke thene me siper por dashuria nuk me inspiron pa dhimbjen qe shkakton. smiley

prandaj tema shkoi per lesh ne infinit,adinaaaaaaaaaaa ju lutem,silleni diskutimin e spiritusit!

une jam brenda asaj çka ke thene ti per vargjet,perndryshe as qe do hyja ne diskutim,me siguri do fitosh prap primatin e 800 komenteve,pa ndryshuar asgje,dmth duke shpresuar(une) ne nje fetus te paklonuar!

Me fal tani, por ti i ke marre problemet e embrionit siç paraqiten ne vjershe dhe i ke kontekstualizuar ne tema me te gjera si dashuria dhe jeta. Per kete arsye thashe se ke dale jashte temes dhe me vjen keq te te them qe ke ofruar me shume leksione ne moral se sa mendime mbi vuajtjen ekzistenciale.

Ne thelb Spiritus ka thene qe une jam feministe radikale(per interpretimin tim te vjershes) dhe qe jam bazuar tek The dialectic of sex te Shulamith Firestone qe nuk e kam lexuar ndonjehere. Me ka akuzuar edhe si mbeshtetese te riprodhimit asnje lloj indikacioni qe jam e tille.


Mendoj se Jardin eshte burre....madje i njohur ketusmiley

ciao zana,si je,vit te mbare paç!

Tani po e kuptoj pse me kane vene mballomen "shkrimtare e deshtuar", paskam lene Kaliopin pergjysme. smiley

Epo Kaliopi nuk eshte destinacioni, por udhetimi. Kshuqe "jemi brenda" te gjithe njesoj. Me fjale akoma te tjera, mos e prish terezine. smiley

Muas i pelqen te rikthehet ne Kalopi', edhe per kenaqesine e rileximit te atyre perlave te FH-se. 

Po de, se tani as therrime s'na hedh fh-ja. Aty i keni, thote, c'faj kam une.

 Ciao, Lost! Rralle e per mall edhe ti. smiley

he mo se nuk u permbys dynjaja e as shtatezania nuk shteroj neper bote, pse Jardin solli nje poezi ?

Mua, korben me pelqej . Pare dhe thene ne formen me te vrazhde por te vertete.


Ca te pelqeu ty poezia apo shtatzania? Lol

po ja , Moxa ,shtatezanine e provova ,poezine jo !

ueee cfare masakre komenteve! po nuk qeveriset me tritol o admin! Mire koha e shpenzuar po humbet edhe logjika e vijueshmerise se komenteve me kete krasitje te pakuptimte.

Nuk e di kush i ka fshire komentet, por ne fakt mund te zgjidhej ndryshe. Mund te ndryshohet titulli i temes si psh "Neper ato kopshtije" dhe te lihen te gjitha komente-gonxhet (me theks te e-ja.)

Dhe per kortezi ndaj hapesit te temes, nje teme tjeter me vete, meqe komentet me temen e lost_text s'ka ushkur qe t'i lidh.  


Dakort, nuk eshte hapsira e duhur per keto debate por leshimi eshte bere qe ne poezine e pare te Jardine per Idrisin. Problemi eshte se dekurajohen kontributoret e rinj  ne ppu. Jardine eshte pikelluar nga ky masakrim i komenteve dhe duket sikur i vetmi shqetsim i ngritur prej saj, jane shqetsimet gastronomike te grave shtazena.Nejse. Ky eshte fati atyre qe prishin statusquo-ne the revolucionarizojne mendimin. Nga Turra e druve tek censurimi arbitrar.

Eh, çfare prite prej PPU-se? Eshte mikrokozma e shoqerise shiptare...

Asgje kunder jardine, perkundrazi.

Sugjerimi ishte miqesor dhe ne drejtim te pergjithshem. Kaq smiley.

"Lady Lazarus," Sylvia Plath

I have done it again. 
One year in every ten 
I manage it----- 

A sort of walking miracle, my skin 
Bright as a Nazi lampshade, 
My right foot 

A paperweight, 
My featureless, fine 
Jew linen. 

Peel off the napkin 
O my enemy. 
Do I terrify?------- 

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? 
The sour breath 
Will vanish in a day. 

Soon, soon the flesh 
The grave cave ate will be 
At home on me 

And I a smiling woman. 
I am only thirty. 
And like the cat I have nine times to die. 

This is Number Three. 
What a trash 
To annihilate each decade. 

What a million filaments. 
The Peanut-crunching crowd 
Shoves in to see 

Them unwrap me hand and foot ------ 
The big strip tease. 
Gentleman , ladies 

These are my hands 
My knees. 
I may be skin and bone, 

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. 
The first time it happened I was ten. 
It was an accident. 

The second time I meant 
To last it out and not come back at all. 
I rocked shut 

As a seashell. 
They had to call and call 
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. 

Is an art, like everything else. 
I do it exceptionally well. 

I do it so it feels like hell. 
I do it so it feels real. 
I guess you could say I've a call. 

It's easy enough to do it in a cell. 
It's easy enough to do it and stay put. 
It's the theatrical 

Comeback in broad day 
To the same place, the same face, the same brute 
Amused shout: 

'A miracle!' 
That knocks me out. 
There is a charge 

For the eyeing my scars, there is a charge 
For the hearing of my heart--- 
It really goes. 

And there is a charge, a very large charge 
For a word or a touch 
Or a bit of blood 

Or a piece of my hair on my clothes. 
So, so, Herr Doktor. 
So, Herr Enemy. 

I am your opus, 
I am your valuable, 
The pure gold baby 

That melts to a shriek. 
I turn and burn. 
Do not think I underestimate your great concern. 

Ash, ash--- 
You poke and stir. 
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there---- 

A cake of soap, 
A wedding ring, 
A gold filling. 

Herr God, Herr Lucifer 


Out of the ash 

I rise with my red hair 
And I eat men like air.

"Still I Rise," Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history 
With your bitter, twisted lies, 
You may tread me in the very dirt 
But still, like dust, I'll rise. 

Does my sassiness upset you? 
Why are you beset with gloom? 
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells 
Pumping in my living room. 

Just like moons and like suns, 
With the certainty of tides, 
Just like hopes springing high, 
Still I'll rise. 

Did you want to see me broken? 
Bowed head and lowered eyes? 
Shoulders falling down like teardrops. 
Weakened by my soulful cries. 

Does my haughtiness offend you? 
Don't you take it awful hard 
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines 
Diggin' in my own back yard. 

You may shoot me with your words, 
You may cut me with your eyes, 
You may kill me with your hatefulness, 
But still, like air, I'll rise. 

Does my sexiness upset you? 
Does it come as a surprise 
That I dance like I've got diamonds 
At the meeting of my thighs? 

Out of the huts of history's shame 
I rise 
Up from a past that's rooted in pain 
I rise 
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, 
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. 
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear 
I rise 
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear 
I rise 
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, 
I am the dream and the hope of the slave. 
I rise 
I rise 
I rise.


Kjo meriton te perkthehet edhe ne shqip meqe kam pershtypjen se shume vete mund te identifikohen si me tonin ashtu me permbajtjen. 

Eve's Apology in Defense of Women

Excerpted from Salve Deus Rex Judæorum
by Amelia Lanyer, 1611

But surely Adam can not be excused, 
Her fault though great, yet he was most to blame; 
What Weakness offered, Strength might have refused, 
Being Lord of all, the greater was his shame:                 780 
Although the Serpent's craft had her abused, 
God's holy word ought all his actions frame, 
    For he was Lord and King of all the earth, 
    Before poore Eve had either life or breath.   

Who being framed by God's eternal hand,                      785 
The perfectest man that ever breathed on earth; 
And from God's mouth received that straight command, 
The breach whereof he knew was present death: 
Yea having power to rule both Sea and Land, 
Yet with one Apple won to loose that breath                   790 
    Which God had breathed in his beauteous face, 
    Bringing us all in danger and disgrace.  

And then to lay the fault on Patience' back, 
That we (poor women) must endure it all; 
We know right well he did discretion lack,                      795 
Being not persuaded thereunto at all; 
If Eve did err, it was for knowledge' sake, 
The fruit being fair persuaded him to fall: 
    No subtle Serpent's falsehood did betray him, 
    If he would eat it, who had power to stay him?           800 

Not Eve, whose fault was only too much love, 
Which made her give this present to her Dear, 
That what she tasted, he likewise might prove, 
Whereby his knowledge might become more clear; 
He never sought her weakeness to reprove,                   805 
With those sharp words, which he of God did hear: 
    Yet Men will boast of Knowledge, which he took 
    From Eve's fair hand, as from a learned Book.

E plote gjendet ketu:

Christina Rossetti, “In an Artist’s Studio”

One face looks out from all his canvasses,
One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans;
We found her hidden just behind those screens,
That mirror gave back all her loveliness.
A queen in opal or in ruby dress,
A nameless girl in freshest summer greens,
A saint, an angel; – every canvass means
The same one meaning, neither more nor less.
He feeds upon her face by day and night,
And she with true kind eyes looks back on him
Fair as the moon and joyful as the light;
Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim;
Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright;
Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.

"Solsticio," Maria-Mercè Marçal

Tu sexo y el mío son dos bocas.

¡No sientes qué beso de rocío sobre el musgo!
¡Qué mordisco con relente de remolino abierto!
¡Qué baile, pequeñas lenguas sin brida!
¡Qué secreto de desfiladero! Nuestros sexos.

Amor, son dos bocas. Y dos sexos 
ahora nos laten en el lugar de las bocas.
Con miedo tapado, fundido el eco de la brida
que domaba la lanza del musgo.
De par el par tenemos la playa abierta:
lancemos el deseo de espuma viva.

Tu sexo y mi boca viva,
a chorro, trenzados como si fuesen dos sexos,
entremezclan licores de fruta abierta
y devienen, en pleno desvarío, bocas.
Bocas, corales en laguna de musgo
donde la hora pace el azar y pierde la brida.

Bocas, corales en lengua de musgos
donde la hora pace el azar y pierde la brida.

Estamos donde la hora y el azar pierden la brida,
donde, a caballo de la marea viva,
resbalan sin velamen, por los surcos del musgo,
mi sexo y tu boca: sexos
en medio del rostro y la entrepierna, bocas.
Todo es un alboroto de sal abierta.

Castillos de mar en fiesta, en noche abierta
borran signos y se desbocan
con la locura de las bocas.
Cualquier hoja muerta cobra vida
con la claridad del sol que nos da luz negra en los sexos
y pinta de carmín llamas de musgo.

¡Que se queme todo en un torrente de musgo
y que nos amase nuestra savia abierta!
Que hagan el solsticio nuestros sexos,
que el corazón transforme en lluvia toda brida!
¡Que revienten los bancales en sazón viva!
¡Que los bosques florezcan en miles de bocas!

¡Y que las bocas hagan que el musgo
arraigue, vivo, como la piel abierta
sin brida en el espejo de nuestros sexos!

kete ke ne mendje kur flet per liri seksuale?! shume demonstrative poezia ke bosques florezcan en miles de bocas. ta perkthe spiritur nese nuk kupton shprehjen. 

E di shume mire dhe nuk kam frike te them qe ben pjese e gjerave qe kam ne mendje kur flas per liri seksuale. Problemi yt.........eshte problemi yt!!!

gjithcka eshte kaq e kuptueshme ne kete poezi.el sexo es la boca del cuerpo, la boca es el sexo del alma.


“Solsticio” i perket zhanrit feminist dhe me specifikisht atij lezbik por me shume se nje narracion erotik midis dy grave eshte nje hymnizim i te qenurit femer dhe nje celebrim i trupit te saj. Per fat te keq nuk e kam gjetur kete poezi ne anglisht qe do te kishte ndihmuar ato qe jane te interesuar t'a lexojne te shkojne pertej fjaleve “el sexo” dhe “las bocas” qe ne nje interpretim imediat nenkuptojne seks oral. Ne fakt “el sexo” perfaqeson qenien femerore te pakushtezuar nga koha, dhe pavaresisht se paraqitet ne nje eksperience intime me nje femer tjeter, ajo gdhendet ne eternalitet dhe ne peisazhin natyror nga Marçal. Trupat e ketyre dy femrave sherbejne si pasqyra te njera tjetres , si reflektime te figures femerore me gjithe ndjeshmerine, pastertine, bukurine, dhe fluiditetin qe tradicionalisht simbolizon. Cdo gje qe i perket ketij afrimi trupror pershkruhet nepermjet natyres, lulezimit, gjelberimit, vallgeve te embla te detit, koraleve, dhe perles... Pra femra dhe seksualiteti i saj ne kete poezi jane te trajtuara si te shenjta, jashte ashpersise fallike. Eshte nje celebrim i femerores, butesise, dhe sensualitetit qe e karakterizon. Shkurt, femra eshte nje qenie e mrekullueshme.


Doli me i bukur komenti yt sesa poezia lol. Ne krahasim me gejizmin, eksperienca e dy femrave duket vertet nje celebrim i ndjeshmerise dhe delikateses.Por gjithsesi, nuk mund te arrihet kulminacioni hyjnores pa nderhyrjen fallike.

Jam absolutisht dakord me ty qe eksperienca lezbike, te pakten ajo qe eshte pershkruar tek kjo poezi celebron ndjeshmerine dhe delikatesen e te qenurit femer. Tani, persa i perket kulminacionit per te cilin shkruan, eshte e vertete qe objekti fallik eshte trajtuar gjate historise nga traditat politeiste si hyjnor, i drejtuar tek qielli, ose tek perendia, jashte dimensionit dhe realitetit tokesor. Ne diference te tij, pjeset intime femerore jane dedikuar zakonisht natyres, dheut dhe ujit, pra gjithmone brenda realitetit. Ne kete linje argumenti, dhe ne kontekstin e aktit seksual lezbik, do te thoja qe “nderhyrja fallike” eshte me shume pjese e imagjinates dhe e iluzioneve te ngjashme me ato te traditave te lartpermendura se sa REALITET. Kete e shkruaj me shume per te konstatuar nje te vertete, se sa per te ulur bukurine e fantazise tende ose te ndonje tjetri. 

Cdo gje qe i perket ketij afrimi trupror pershkruhet nepermjet natyres, lulezimit, gjelberimit, vallgeve te embla te detit, koraleve, dhe perles... Pra femra dhe seksualiteti i saj ne kete poezi jane te trajtuara si te shenjta,

Jardin, poezia, dhe per me teper komenti yt, ku hymnizon trupin e femres, kane nje problem shume te madh.Problemi problematizohet akoma me shume kur kjo vjen nga dy femra , njera moderne/feministe dhe tjetra postmoderne/postfeministe. Problemi eshte sepse historikisht, ne te gjitha shkrimet, krijimet, ne ato te shenjta dhe ato laike, ne letersi dhe teologji, femra eshte pare si trup, si natyre, toka pjellore, sensualitet turbullues, simbol bukurie, seksualitet. Cili eshte identiteti thelbesor i nje femre? Cfare e dallon ate nga mashkulli? Ajo eshte konsideruar Tjetri jothelbesor cfare  nenkupton, ne thelb, Femroren e perjetshme,feminilitetin , kopje e te ciles jane  grate reale, empirike, qe popullojne boten. Me tej ky "Tjeter" eshte veshur me mister , "Mistika femrore", "e panjohura" e cila ne fakt eshte mbulesa e pozicionit per te mos e pranuar ate si te ngjashme/barabarte me mashkullin.Keshtu eshte ndertuar "Miti gruas" si manifestim i brishtesise, feminilitetit, butesise dhe kjo eshte kaq e vertete sa qe kur gruaja merr role jashte kesaj natyre te perceptuar,kur kryen detyra qe u "takojne burrave" ajo konsiderohet "si burre", sillet "si burre" dhe kjo presupozon nje tension mes feminilitetit dhe roleve te saj sociale. A mendojne grate?  A kane "cogito" ato apo jane vetem trup? Nqs jane vetem trup, pra nje qenie e mrekullushme, cfare kane ndryshe si material gjenetik, nga ai i mashkullit, a nuk krijohen nga e njejta "pike vese" ? Kur hyjnizohet rupi femres, fale "dy kodrinave", dy syve te shkelqyer dhe "trekendeshit evolucionar", atehere siperfasorja behet thelbi i Tjetrit jothelbesor, pra i femres. Kjo eshte dhe kontradikta ku ka rene postfeminizmi. Duke kerkuar clirimin e seksualitetit, duke i bere jehone filozofise te se ndryshmes, pra dallimit te femres me meshkujt, aksionin emancipues e redukton , ironikisht, ne performancen seksuale dhe feminilitet,  cfare perputhet me filozofine e shoqerise se  konsumit.Kultura moderne, e fokusuar tek  bukuria femrore dhe seksualiteti , nuk ben gje tjeter vetem se erotizon mitin e vjeter te gruas si Tjetri, si trup , dashnore, seksualitet dhe amesi.




Po t'a them sinqerisht, me ke zhgenjyer me fallocentrizmin tend. Isha shume e bute ne pergjigjen time per komentin siperfaqesor dhe denigrues qe bere me siper por tani toleranca me ka lene.

Per fat te keq, ti ben analiza para se te kuptosh spanjishten, poezine, dhe poeten ne fjale. Kjo eshte nje vjershe feministe, qe riçiklon menyren se si eshte paraqitur tradicionalisht figura e femres ne poezine dhe me gjeresisht ne letersine katalane. Marçal e ben kete gje per te percjellur nje mesazh te forte qe eshte kontrolli i shumepritur i imazhit te femres kolektive nga vete femrat. Ajo refuzoi te krijoje nje tradite dhe forme te re poetike, si dhe simbolizma te reja femerore sepse deshironte t'i qendronte besnike letersise dhe ikonografise katalane. Ne te kunderten e trendit te poeteve feministe, ajo pranon formen poetike dhe simbolizmat tradicionale por ne te njejten kohe i jep vlera qe qendrojne brenda qellimit te vet feminist. Akti seksual lezbik, siç e kam thene me siper, sherben si pasqyre e femres, ku ajo merr nen kontroll trupin e saj, kenaqesine seksuale, dhe estetiken. Marçal e erotizon figuren e femres por kjo eshte diçka normale sepse ajo eshte nje qenie seksuale, dhe pse duhet imazhi i saj t'i pershtatet presioneve qe ka femra kolektive nga shoqeria maskiliste? Pse duhet qe ajo te paraqitet gjithmone si fisnike, elegante, e bute, pasive, dhe si nje qenie qe nuk duhet te gezoje kenaqesi nga marredheniet seksuale? Nuk ekziston nje femer ideale, keshtu qe idealizimi dhe presionet qe i ngriten si pasoje nuk i sherbejne asnje gruaje. Ne kete vjershe femra merr fatin dhe trupin e vet ne dore, duke e perdorur edhe si objekt seksual, pse jo?


Ke te drejte qe ne Shqiperi ka nje faze kulturore moderne (pak a shume e kaluar nga shumica e vendeve perendimore) ku imazhi i femres eshte i erotizuar dhe i kontrolluar nga idealet qe ka vendosur shoqeria maskiliste, dhe me specifikisht nga meshkujt. Argumentet qe kam bere tek tema qe hapa para nje muaji, dhe poezite qe kam sjellur ketu kane percjellur mesazhin qe gruaja duhet t'a kontrolloje imazhin e vet duke i rezistuar atij qe i eshte imponuar nga shoqeria, te vendose preçedentet e vet ne estetike, ne moral, ne sjellje, dhe pse jo ne sjelle seksuale.

"kontroll, rezistence, imponim, precedent"

fjale te renda per nje shpirt te lire. dhe te tera keto brenda nje fjalie. smiley


Liria eshte Vetvendosja. smiley

liria e trurit po, por nese truri vendos gabim e vuan shpirti. une fola per lirine e shpirtit. smiley

smiley Pikerisht, truri dhe vetvendosja qe vjen si pasoje e punimit te tij mundohen t'i plotesojne deshirat e shpirtit. Une argumentoj per sintoni tru-shpirt. smiley

t'i plotesofte truri te gjitha deshirat e shpirtit. ceshtja eshte se po e le trurin te lire ta merr shpirtin peng dhe i dikton c'te deshiroje. e vetmja menyre qe shpirti te flase i lire eshte eliminimi i te menduarit. pa kompromise.

nese shpirti e ndien pastaj se i nevojitet truri, mund t'a perdore kete pa asnje problem. por duhet cliruar njehere, qe te ndieje dallimin. smiley

smiley smiley


Po t'a them sinqerisht, me ke zhgenjyer me fallocentrizmin tend. Isha shume e bute ne pergjigjen time per komentin siperfaqesor dhe denigrues qe bere me siper por tani toleranca me ka lene.

i referehet kesaj qe ke thene:

Por gjithsesi, nuk mund te arrihet kulminacioni hyjnores pa nderhyrjen fallike.


une permenda nje nga menyrat. Ne llogari te fundit, te gjitha rruget e kenaqsise te cojne drejt hyjnores.

Ik re FalloGoCentrist. 

mire, mire por problemi eshte qe fallocentrismi nuk mund te luftohet me vaginocentrisem. Te dyja jane qasje arrogante.

Ecriture féminine, then, is by its nature transgressive, rule-transcending, intoxicated.. The realm of the body, for instance, is seen as somehow immune to social and gender condition and able to issue forth a pure essence of the feminine. Such essentialism is difficult to square with feminism which emphasizes femininity as a social construction…




Spiritus, po i referohesh me duket dy Baticave te ndryshme kohore te Feminizmit. Prandaj permenda edhe konfliktin horizontal ne mendimin feminist. Shume feministe tek Peshku jane Heteroseksuale Bisha.

Nili pavaresisht discoursit te dhunshem nuk eshte Feministe radikale por me duket si e 'humbur ne Lexim'.  Ajo i kendon feminitetit, bukurise se gruas qe per Radikalet eshte thjesht nje konstrukt i imponuar nga hegejmonia e performances heterosexuale te shoqerise. Me pak fjale Nili ben manifest per dashuri te lire femrore brendat identitit te gjinise se saj, ajo ka identitet e saj te formuar. Ajo nuk shkon deri ne liri gjinie, ku te tre ne i bie qe te jemi ose femer ose mashkull sipas discoursit mbreterues. Mund te jete lesbian se spara ishte e ndergjegjshme shume mbi birth control vecse dis-balances hormonole, nje fakt qe Nili shikon perputhje midis identitetit fizik te saj dhe atij mendor te saj dhe e ka konfliktin thjesht me normat sociale si dhe me praktikat seksuale te femrave qe kane nevoje fizike per meshkuj.


Ke te drejte kur shkruan se nuk mbeshtes feminizmin radikal te cilin e konsideroj po aq fallocentrik sa maskilizmin. Ne fakt, une mbeshtes rrymen e re feministe “fourth wave feminism” e cila ka per qellim me shume liri, te drejta, ore te reduktuara pune, me pak presione nga shoqeria, dhe me e rendesishmja qe eshte demokracia e te qenurit femer, jashte idealizmave qe i behet nga meshkujt dhe nga vete femrat.

Persa i perket vjershes, e kam shkruar me siper dhe nuk e di a e ke lexuar se me shume se nje poezi lezbike, ku femrat shprehin deshiren per njera tjetren, eshte celebrimi i trupit femeror, dhe konstruksion femeror i figures se saj. Pra, qellimi nuk ka qene vetem nje manifest per lirine seskuale brenda gjinise time, por, le t'a quajme ate qe eshte, nje propagane e vogel per demokracine e te qenurit femer.

Ti pergjitheson me ose pa qellim kur shkruan se e kam “konfliktin me normat sociale,” por po te kujtoj qe problemet e normave mbi te cilat kam shkruar kane te bejne me cenimin qe i behet lirise se gruas. Nuk e kuptoj pse ben supozime mbi seksualitetin tim, por meqe je duke i bere, po te them qe lezbianizmi im mundshem nuk ka se si te beje me qendrimin tim mbi “birth control pills.” Gjithashtu, je komplet “off the mark” me kete konfliktualitetin qe paskam me nevojat fizike te femrave per meshkujt.


Tironci, nuk po them se Jardie eshte feministe radikale, nuk kam si e gjykoj dhe nuk duhet te aludoj rreth  rreth orientimit te saj seksual. Po flasim pertej personit,po diskutojme  per pikpamjet ne qarkullim lidhur me seksualitetin, femren dhe performimin e saj si subjekt autonom.E sigurt eshte se duke qene ne France, Jardine nuk mund te  jete jashte ndikimeve te frenc feminsmit. Prandaj permenda écriture féminine, si kundervenie e logocentrismit, nje thirrje per te inicuar  nje "gjuhe femrore" ne pershkrimin e sexualitetit femror, ku femrat te shprehen si subjektivitete "ne vetvete" dhe "per veten " . Ne  matericen heteroseksuale identiteti fizik/sexual perputhet me ate gjinor.Por realiteti me fluiditetet seksuale i rri ngushte kemisha heteroseksuale. Prandaj Jardine sjell ate poezine e spanjolles ku trupi i femres kqyret premes lenteve lesbike, duke evituar keshtu "gjuhen e ashper fallike". E keshtu,  pasi zhytesh  ne leximet e shkruara me "feminine language" , del ne realitetin ku "gjuha" kthehet ne te  vetmin  instrument te  performances sexuale.

Une e shihja si radikale nga gjuha e eger e mallkimeve ndaj meshkujve qe perdor sepse nuk ndan te keqen e te shemtuaren nga forma mashkullore, gje per pasoje e ben automatikisht te perjashtuar si partnere te nje mashkulli qe asociohet me gjithe ato ligesi, koka boshe etj, qofte edhe teorikisht.

French Feminism ka qene prekursori i Feminizmit radikal, por vajza sduket ti kete pertypur si duhet mesimet se si duhet te evitohet shfrytezimi biologjik i mashkullit ndaj femres. Gjithashtu poli-dashuria dhe rezistenca qe i ben ajo dashurise ne te njejten gjini, ne pergjegjen qe me ka dhene me siper,  me tregon kontradikte, nje keq lexim me shume se sa ngurim per te shijuar lirine e mohuar. 

Supozime dhe vetem supozime ben Tironc por nuk dua te harxhoj kohe te te shkruaj. Ne rradhe te pare sepse kjo teme ka te beje me letersine dhe jo me personin ose seksualitetin tim. Ne rradhe te dyte sepse i ke qendrimet e fiksuara ne paragjykime qe nuk ma merr mendja qe do t'i ndryshoja edhe po te doja.

mire, mire por problemi eshte qe fallocentrismi nuk mund te luftohet me vaginocentrisem. 

Perkundrazi luftohet, por me nje dhe vetem nje menyre te caktuar lufte, luftim trup me trup.


Per Feministe te caktuara luftimi trup me trup Heretik klasifikohet si praktike e imponuar nga perseritja e ritualit te aktit seksual midis mashkullit e femres qe nuk eshte me pak se variant perdhunimi

Jane pikerisht ato feministe te caktuara qe mos i takofsh ne aktrim, se te hudhin ne tuç si nje pa dy!



Ti mendon vertet se ne 3 Mosketieret mund ti bindim te ndryshojne mendim ndaj falogocentrizmit???? Nuk e besoj qe jemi aq te magjishem.

Eshte poezi lezbike Spiritus dhe per kete arsye kritikova komentin tend fallocentrik. Tani, ti ke te drejte t'a shprehesh ate por ne kete rast m'u duk si i papershtatshem meqenese behet fjale per aktin seksual lezbik dhe nje vjershe... Mua me çudit kjo qe shkruan per luften fallocentrike- vaginocentrike, por çfare ka te beje kjo ketu ?

Tani, besoj se e kam bere te qarte me siper se kjo poete refuzonte te krijonte nje forme te re poetike siç e rekomandon feminizmi radikal dhe Hélène Cixous meqenese ke sjellur citim nga ajo. Marçal qendron brenda formes poetike dhe ikonografise katalane (maskiliste) duke perdorur argumentin qe femrat kane te drejte t'a gezojne patrimonin e vet kulturor po aq sa meshkujt. Por ne te njejten kohe, ajo i jep vlera te reja simbolizmit femeror dhe formes poetike tradicionale duke propaguar mesazhin e vet feminist.


Po kush me shkop në xham troket?
“S’do mend që jam Findlej!”
-Shtëpia fle dhe s’ka lezet!
“Nuk fle!” – i tha Findlej.

-Po si guxon këtej të vish?
“Guxoj!” – i tha Findlej.
-Ki mendjen, punën mos e prish!
“E prish!” – i tha Findlej.

-Deriçkën hapur po ta kesh...
“Ta kem!” – i tha Findlej.
-Pa gjumë natën do më lesh!
“Pa gjumë”, - tha Findlej.

-Dhe po të lashë në shtëpi...
“Më lër!” i tha Findlej.
-Të gjen mëngjesi në gosti!
“Më gjen!” – tha Findlej.

-Sikur të gdhihem tok me ty...
“Me mua!” – tha Findlej.
-Ty prapë ky shteg ta bën me sy.
“Ma bën!” – i tha Findlej.

-Dhe ç’do punoj me ty, qyqar...
“Puno!” – i tha Findlej.
-Ta mbyllësh gojën gjer në varr.
“Tamam!” – i tha Findlej.

Kjo versha qenka pak a shume si ato pyetjet provokative qe bente antifeminsti ABCD1 tek tema me vrasje dhe seks:

- Po sikur gruaja jote te mungonte tre ore tek kasapi qe do ta kish palluar, çfar do te mendoje?

- Le ta palloje!


Shume e bukur PF

Eh, i madhi Robert Burns nen perkthimin e te madhit Dritero Agolli, s'ka si te mos jete i bukur.

Pf falemnderit qe ke shije nga te rrallat per mua , per te dashur Bernsin !

Perkthimi Driteroit me ratin e 100 Vjetorit eshte perkthim i Tij , i Lirikut te madh Agolli por ne imagjinaten e tij Findlej eshte nje DEVOLLI smiley por jo Findlej !

Po kush me shkop në xham troket?
“S’do mend që jam Findlej!” ........ varg shume i ashper 
-Shtëpia fle dhe s’ka lezet!
“Nuk fle!” – i tha Findlej.

Le ta ballafaqojme me nje Lirik jo kaq te "ashper "smiley

Kush troket kaq vone nder ne ....

Jam une ..tha Findlej 

gjithkush ketu po fle...(perkthysi e perdor edhe " sikush ")

Gjithkush jo ..tha Findlej ..krahasoje me ..Nuk fle ???

Ja dhe nje tjeter pas kemnguljes se hapjes se deres 

-Sikur të gdhihem tok me ty...
“Me mua!” – tha Findlej.
-Ty prapë ky shteg ta bën me sy.
“Ma bën!” – i tha Findlej.

Tetra e lirikut smiley

Dhe ne befsha sic dot 

sic dua ..tha Findlej ...(e kupton kopshtarja kemnguljen dhe dominimin e seks males smiley

Do cfaqesh naten perseri 

Do cfaqem..tha Findlej 

Cfare dallimi i Madh i nje Qejfliu Devolli me nje "kembengules" te dashuruar shume here me Qejfli por fshatar i Bernsit !

Kot me te pyt . E dija qe do te vija vetem per kete smiley 

"Song of Myself," Walt Whitman

...Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.
She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.
Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.
Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.
Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather,
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.
The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their 
         long hair, 
Little streams pass'd all over their bodies.
An unseen hand also pass'd over their bodies,
It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.
The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to 
         the sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them, 
They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bend-
         ing arch, 
They do not think whom they souse with spray.

The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his knife 
         at the stall in the market, 
I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down.
Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil,
Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in 
         the fire. 

From the cinder-strew'd threshold I follow their movements,
The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms,
Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so 
They do not hasten, each man hits in his place...


...The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block swags 
         underneath on its tied-over chain, 
The negro that drives the long dray of the stone-yard, steady and 
         tall he stands pois'd on one leg on the string-piece, 
His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens over 
         his hip-band, 
His glance is calm and commanding, he tosses the slouch of his 
         hat away from his forehead, 
The sun falls on his crispy hair and mustache, falls on the black 
         of his polish'd and perfect limbs. 

I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop 
I go with the team also.
In me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well as 
         forward sluing, 
To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object miss- 
Absorbing all to myself and for this song.
Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade, 
         what is that you express in your eyes? 
It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.
My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and 
         day-long ramble, 
They rise together, they slowly circle around...

"Pastoral," Marcella Durand

leaf and leaf and leaf and leaf and leaf and branch and leaf and leaf
and leaf and leaf and leaf and postcard of greenish sunset and leaf
and leaf and leaf and bag and twig and leaf and bee and leaf and
leaf and branch and leaf and branch and leaf and leaf and cloud and
leaf and leaf and leaf and pot and bee and leaf and paper and leaf
and leaf and leaf and large bee and bottle of shampoo and leaf and leaf
and water jug and leaf and leaf and plum and leaf and leaf and knife and
leaf and leaf and leaf and lighter fluid and leaf and leaf and thin cloud
and leaf and leaf and leaf and unidentified bug and leaf and leaf and leaf
and leaf and pile of papers and leaf and leaf and leaf and sand and leaf and
leaf and chairs and leaf and bananas and leaf and leaf and murder mystery and
leaf and newspaper and leaf and leaf and pen and leaf and leaf and twig and branch
and leaf and leaf and web and leaf and hair and leaf and tea and leaf and ear
and leaf and leaf and leaf and sky and leaf and hand and leaf and socks and
leaf and leaf and branch and leaf and gnat and leaf and bee and leaf and leaf
and leaf and foot and leaf and baby and leaf and branch and leaf and sun and
leaf and leaf and purplish conglomerate rock and leaf and leaf and shell and
and leaf and dune and leaf and table and leaf and leaf and leaf and berries and
leaf and shriveled blossom and leaf and leaf and parking lot and recycling station
and leaf and car and leaf and car and leaf and leaf and twig and leaf and
and small pale rock and leaf and leaf and yogurt and leaf and leaf and
sunglasses and hat and leaf and leaf and spider and leaf and leaf and leaf and
and leaf and leaf and leaf and bone and leaf and eye and leaf and green and brown
and leaf and blue and leaf and white and green

"So Much Water So Close To Home," What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, Raymond Carver

My husband eats with a good appetite. But I don’t think he’s really hungry. He chews, arms on the table, and stares at something across the room. He looks at me and looks away. He wipes his mouth on the napkin. He shrugs, and goes on eating.

"What are you staring at me for?" he says. "What is it?" he says and lays down his fork.

"Was I staring?" I say, and shake my head. The telephone rings.

"Don’t answer it," he says.

"It might be your mother," I say.

"Watch and see," he says.

I pick up the receiver and listen. My husband stops eating.

"What did I tell you?" he says when I hang up. He starts to eat again. Then throws his napkin on his plate. He says, "Goddamn it, why can’t people mind their own business? Tell me what I did wrong and I’ll listen! I wasn’t the only man there. We talked it over and we all decided. We couldn’t just turn around. We were five miles from the car. I won’t have you passing judgment. Do you hear?"

"You know," I say.

He says, "What do I know, Claire? Tell me what I’m supposed to know. I don’t know anything except one thing?’ He gives me what he thinks is a meaningful look. "She was dead," he says. "And I’m as sorry as anyone else. But she was dead."

"That’s the point," I say.

He raises his hands. He pushes his chair away from the table. He takes out his cigarettes and goes out to the back with a can of beer. ~ see him sit in the lawn chair and pick up the newspaper again.

His name is in there on the first page. Along with the names of his friends.

I close my eyes and hold on to the sink. Then I rake my arm across the drainboard and send the dishes to the floor.

He doesn’t move. I know he’s heard. He lifts his head as if still listening. But he doesn’t move otherwise. He doesn’t turn around...

In the end they went ahead and set up the camp. They built a fire and drank their whiskey. When the moon came up, they talked about the girl. Someone said they should -keep the body from drifting away. They took their flashlights and went back to the river. One of the men-it might have been Stuart-waded in and got her. He took her by the fingers and pulled her into shore. He got some nylon cord and tied it to her wrist and then looped the rest around a tree.

The next morning they cooked breakfast, drank coffee, and drank whiskey, and then split up to fish...


 That night they cooked fish, cooked potatoes, drank coffee, drank whiskey, then took their cooking things and eating things back down to the river and washed them where the girl was.

They played some cards later on. Maybe they played until they couldn’t see them anymore. Vern Williams went to sleep. But the others told stories. Gordon Johnson said the trout they’d caught were hard because of the terrible coldness of the water...

We drive through town without speaking. He stops at a roadside market for beer. I notice a great stack ofpapersjust inside the door. On the top step a fat woman in a print dress holds out a licorice stick to a little girl. Later on, we cross Everson Creek and turn into the picnic grounds. The creek runs under the bridge and into a large pond a few hundred yards away. I can see the men out there. I can see them out there fishing.

So much water so close to home.

1 say, "Why did you have to go miles away?"

"Don’t rile me," he says.

We sit on a bench in the sun. He opens us cans of beer. He says, "Relax, Claire."

"They said they were innocent. They said they were crazy."

He says, "Who?" He says, "What are you talking about?"

"The Maddox brothers. They killed a girl named Arlene Hubly where I grew up. They cut off her head and threw her into the Cle Elum River. It happened when I was a girl..."

I sit for a long time holding the newspaper and thinking. Then I call up to get a chair at the hairdresser’s.

I S I T under the dryer with a magazine on my lap and let Marnie do my nails.

"I am going to a funeral tomorrow," I say. "I’m sorry to hear that," Marnie says. "It was a murder," I say.

"That’s the worst kind," Marnie says.

"We weren’t all that close," I say. "But you know?’

"We’ll get you fixed up for it," Marnie says...


Zhardine hallall keto ne anglisht, se me duket se je per american civilization ti. Po ate flamurin francez kot e ke? Ndonje 'kenge' frengjishte hic?


Po pra. Francezet shquhen per muzike te bukur romantike. Sharing is caring Jardin smiley

Mimi, me 'kenge' kisha parasysh vjersha ose poezi.

Zhardina m'u pergjigj ne gjermanisht, qe do te thote (ndoshta, just guessing at this point) qe frengjishtes i paska bere dalje. Mund te vije prej te qenit e rrethuar nga kjo gjuhe. Case of "familiarity breeds contempt"? smiley

Po muzike me lyric. Brenda temes eshte dhe kjo. Nein une e si qe dmth zdu smiley 

No, not contempt. More like boredom.

Pastaj t'a keshillova nje film ne frengjisht. smiley

Aha, per mua e kishe ate te Brixhites? E kam lene 'duhanin' francez me kohe. Bota anglishtfolese eshte hegjemonike, you know? Te thith brenda dhe s'te leshon, me poezi, kinomatografi, publicistike e te tera.

Prandaj them ben mire kur dikush ngre lart frankofonine a kultura te tjera, se na mbyti anglishtja smiley.

ps.: qe te jemi te qarte, I love English language anyway. smiley

Ok do te ta plotesoj qejfin dhe do te sjell poezi dhe tregime ne frengjisht smiley


Ja nje: 

Les Passants -- Zaz

Les passants, passant,
J'passe mon temps a les r'garder penser,
Leurs pas pressés, dans leurs corps lésés,
Leurs passés se dévoilent dans les pas sans se soucier.

Que, suspicieuse, à l'affût,
Je perçois le jeu de paon,
Leurs visages comme des masques me fait l'effet répugnant, que faire semblant, c'est dans l'air du temps.

Passe, passe, passera
La dernière restera. 

L'enfant n'est fait que de fêtes,
Le fait est que l'effet se reflète à sa capacité de prendre le fait tel qu'il est
Sans se référer à un système de pensées dans sa tête.

L'automne déjà,
C'était l'été hier encore,
Le temps me surprend, semble s'accélérer,
Les chiffres de mon âge, amènent vers ce moi rêvé.

Passe, passe, passera
La dernière restera. 


Chaque mois se joue dans des cycles différents,
C'est marrant ces remous qui m'animent à travers l'temps d'un état à un autre,
J'oscille inexorablement.

Par les temps je cours à l'équilibre,
Chaque jugement sur les gens me donne la direction à suivre
Sur ces choses en moi à changer,
Qui m'empêchent d'être libre.

Les voix se libèrent et s'exposent dans les vitrines du monde en mouvement,
Les corps qui dansent en osmose,
Glissent, tremblent, se confondent et s'attirent irrésistiblement.

Par les temps je cours à l'expression,
Chaque émotion ressentie me donne l'envie d'exprimer les non-dits
Et que justice soit faite
Dans nos pauvres vies endormies.

Passe, passe, passera
La dernière restera.

Passe, passe, passera
La dernière restera. 

Passe, passe, passera
La dernière restera. 

Ok, merci.

Per Magusin dhe Llasticen. smiley

"Les états généraux," André Breton

Dis ce qui est dessous parle

Dis ce qui commence

Et polis mes yeux qui accrochent à peine la lumière

Comme un fourré que scrute un chasseur somnambule

Polis mes yeux fais sauter cette capsule de marjolaine

Qui sert à me tromper sur les espèces du jour

Le jour si c'était lui

Quand passe sur les campagnes l'heure de traire

Descendrait-il si précipitamment ses degrés

Pour s'humilier devant la verticale d'étincelles

Qui saute de doigts en doigts entre les jeunes femmes

des fermes toujours sorcières
Polis mes yeux à ce fil superbe sans cesse renaissant

de sa rupture
Ne laisse que lui écarte ce qui est tavelé
Y compris au loin la grande rosace des batailles
Comme un filet qui s'égoutte sous le spasme des

poissons du couchant
Polis mes yeux polis-les à l'éclatante poussière de

tout ce qu'ils ont vu
Une épaule des boucles près d'un broc d'eau verte
Le matin

Dis ce qui est sous le matin sous le soir

Que j'aie enfin l'aperçu topographique de ces poches

extérieures aux éléments et aux règnes
Dont le système enfreint la distribution naïve des

êtres et des choses
Et prodigue au grand jour le secret de leurs affinités
De leur propension à s'éviter ou à s'étreindre
A l'image de ces courants
Qui se traversent sans se pénétrer sur les cartes

Il est temps de mettre de côté les apparences individuelles d'autrefois
Si promptes à s'anéantir dans une seule châtaigne

de culs de mandrilles
D'où les hommes par légions prêts à donner leur vie Échangent un dernier regard avec les belles toutes

Qu'emporte le pont d'hermine d'une cosse de fève
Mais polis mes yeux
A la lueur de toutes les enfances qui se mirent à la

fois dans une amande
Au plus profond de laquelle à des lieues et des lieues
S'éveille un feu de forge

Que rien n'inquiète l'oiseau qui chante entre les 8
De l'arbre des coups de fouet


Ok, rrofsh. Themeluesi i surrealizmit, cool.

Tani ky lloj vargu uitmanesk, ne forme, eshte dekurajues per lexuesit me imagjinate frankofilie por me kufizime frankofonie. Une psh kam studiuar frengjisht me vite, por vargje te tilla te gjata s'i kap dot. Ajo hegjemonia e anglishtes qe te thashe me lart t'i shpelan trute nga gjithe gjuhet e tjera dhe afeksionet linguistike qe mund te kesh pasur me pare. smiley Nejse, merci dhe njehere.

Them se kjo poezi do te te pelqeje me shume: 

"Cité de la Muette," Nicolas Grenier

Dans les murs de la cité de la Muette,
Des Français, des Juifs, des foules honnêtes.

Les uns rêvent de lointains paysages,
Les autres traînent devant le grillage.

Dans les bras, des enfants à l’agonie.
Les corps faméliques meurent d’ennui.

Au-delà du mur, la fraternité,
L’hiver, l’été, la vie, la liberté.

À la lumière d’un mirador,
Un cortège d’hommes à demi-morts.

L’étoile jaune greffée dans le cœur,
Ils s’éclipsent ni vaincu ni vainqueur.

Nuit et jour, sous les cieux sang et or,
Les convois roulent jusqu’à Sobibor.

"La Laide," Journal sans bord. Étienne Marie.


Amère, amère. Retombée de citron. Elle est celle qui s'éprend de l'heure reine tôt vécue.


   Et marcher dans cette ouate imbibée, quel retard ! Les arbres sans racines se sont trompés de terre, leurs feuilles s'engloutissent, s'engloutissent, n'ayant rien d'autre à espérer. Les pierres sont devenues montagnes, elles-mêmes devenues carnaval incertain que chacun se balance à la tête.


   « Ma rivière calme dans sa fête, l'air carnassier. Mère des Trois Pays, ça cogne dans ta tête, tu crois que c'est à la fenêtre.

   Va-nu-pieds sur la digue, sur la digue don daine, tu traînes, corps vautré.

   Sang coulé n'a pas d'odeurs, le tien si car de menstrues.

   Les comptines sont là pour toi, crevasses en sus. »


   Un homme à sa fenêtre compte les notes disposées sur les fils électriques, tandis qu'un train, si train il y a, refuse sa chanson aux moines paysans qui déversent aux champs leurs surplus de prières ; tandis que les gendarmes prennent la cuisinière en flagrant délit de masturbation.


   Ça c'est un à-côté, rien de commun avec la laide, qui s'enfuit en cachant sa pensée, toute rouge dressée, et poursuivie par des soldats casqués en vue de ce travail.


   Revêches sont les cerisiers, les épaules, les villages.


   Elle l'appelle de sons neigeux, le fol, l'éclaté byzantin, le Mozambique à nez camard, elle divague la sucrée, creusant ses paumes, dictant ses plaintes.


          Elle chevauche, elle requiert

          « Mon foisonnement rare », dit-elle.


   Elle halète, bras sémaphore, dans le champ froid évanoui, gorge tendue, cri répété.

          « La forêt s'ouvre et me rejette, gros poisson ballonné.

           De mes siamois qu'adviendra-t-il ?

           De mes perdrix roucoulent douces ?

           De chaque chêne à moi donné ?

           De mes cristaux transparents gais ? »


merci beaucoup Jardin. Ja dhe nje tjeter klasike.Ne me quitte pas.


Mos me ler
Duhet harruar
Gjithçka mund te harrohet
Qe largohet tashme
Te harrohet koha
E keqkuptimeve
Dhe koha e humbur
Kushedi se si
Te harrohen ato ore
Qe vrisnin ndonjehere
me goditje pse-shë
Zemren e lumturise
Mos me ler
Mos me ler
Mos me ler
Mos me ler 

Une do te ofroja
Perla shiu
Te ardhura nga vendet
Ku nuk bie shi
Do te germoja token
Deri pas vdekjes time
Per te mbuluar trupin tend
Me ar dhe drite
Do te beja nje mbreteri
Ku dashuria te jete mbret
Ku dashuria te jete ligj
Ku ti te jesh mbretereshe
Mos me ler
Mos me ler
Mos me ler
Mos me ler
Mos me ler

Une do te te shpikja
Fjale te pakuptimta
Qe ti do t'i kuptoje
Do te te flisja 
Per ata te dashur
Qe kane pare dy here
Zemrat e tyre te behen prush.
Do te te tregoja 
Historine e atij mbreti
Qe vdiq se nuk mundi
Ty te te takonte.
Mos me ler
Mos me ler
Mos me ler
Mos me ler

Kemi pare pare shpesh
rindezjen e zjarrit
te vullkanit te moçem
Qe e besonim shume te vjeter.
Me sa duket ka
Toka te djegura
Qe nuk japin me grure
Se sa prilli me i mire.

Dhe kur vjen nata 
Qe nje qiell te flakeroje
E kuqja dhe e zeza
A nuk bashkohen ?
Mos me ler
Mos me ler
Mos me ler
Mos me ler

Mos me ler
Nuk do te qaj me
Nuk do te flas me 
Do te fshihem aty
Per te te pare
Te vallezosh e buzeqeshesh
Dhe per te degjuar
Te kendosh e me pas te qeshesh
Me ler te shnderrohem
Hija e hijes tende
Hija e dores tende
Hija e qenit tend
Mos me ler
Mos me ler
Mos me ler
Mos me ler.

Qe e besonim shume te vjeter.
Me sa duket ka
Toka te djegura
Qe nuk japin me grure
Se sa prilli me i mire.

Dhe kur vjen nata 
Qe nje qiell te flakeroje
E kuqja dhe e zeza
A nuk bashkohen ?


Behen boje kaf. 

Me fal per thellesine,

but I'm drunk.



Shih sa mire Mimi, me perkthim. smiley Bravo.

Zhardine, po ku u deve qy me mjes mi?

Mimi e ka perkthyer? Bravo Llastice! smiley


Kam filluar ne darke, jo ne mjes...

“The Death of Marilyn Monroe," The Dead and the Living. Sharon Olds

The ambulance men touched her cold
body, lifted it, heavy as iron,
onto the stretcher, tried to close
the mouth, closed the eyes, tied the
arms to the side, moved a caught
strand of hair, as if it mattered,
saw the shape of her breasts, flattened by
gravity, under the sheet,
carried her, as if it were she,
down the steps.
These men were never the same. They went out
afterwards, as they always did,
for a drink or two, but they could not meet
each other’s eyes.

                            Their lives took
a turn-one had nightmares, strange
pains, impotence, depression. One did not
like his work, his wife looked
different, his kids. Even death
seemed different to him-a place where she
would be waiting,
and one found himself standing at night
in the doorway to a room of sleep, listening to a
woman breathing, just an ordinary


Nje vjershe e inspiruar nga "Ne me quitte pas"


“Silence of the Heart”


Does it happen while we're alive?

          I don't hear it

but I feel



“Why?” may you ask.

Lingering thoughts

                      that cruel rage in my mind


my vagina

is dead

because you left me.


Terror terror

tears of longing

await my future self

space, dreams, breasts, and hair

                                 they're not here to remain.


Loveliness is needed but I don't desire it

pain, only pain

                   characterizes me.

           Corrupted brain cells

           books that I neglect

           dreams that I forge

           names that I forget.


I try to feel

                                 But I'm numb

                                 forever quiet

                                 my heart is

Yet it pumps blood

                      but not love,

                                 only theories.


Silence will be my companion for the rest

of this century.

                                        You on the other hand

                  will go away like the rest

of the other men,

or theories

                      that I couldn't



NO.111.3, Kenneth Goldsmith

"...I just don’t know what there is
to care about anymore, I just want to curl up in a cave and
sleep all winter, i loved who you are i think before i loved who
you were, I might be a slut and a whore but I’m not a liar!, I
really didn’t want to go so I didn’t bother, I over romanticized
people when I was younger, I should think of something else
than what’s between my fingers, I think Barry Manilow is one
cool motherfucker, I think this is getting tired. Level it and
start over, I vote for poetry … it will last longer than flowers, I
was fifteen when I got turned on to marijuana, I went around
with a bucket and plucked all my plants bare, I will be drooling
over images of Ron Silver, I wish I had one ounce the compassion
of my father, I’m uncomfortable when I’m alone or
with others, I’m a smoker I’m a joker I’m a midnight toker,
I’m afraid that the winter has laid hold on your fingers, I’m
not alone in fashion dork girl world. None of us are, I’m not
trying to be noticed but I won’t be ignored, I’m only 108
pounds but I’m full-figured, I’m so amazed that people can do
that to each other, I’m so sick of Dennis Hopper being Dennis
Hopper, I’ve been accumulating shit for just about 10 years,
I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor. Believe me rich is better,
I’ve never written a letter to any food before, I’ve often
thought about reading books cover to cover, if he were any
more stupid he’d have to be watered, if I had only been born
twenty-five years earlier, if it’s not challenging it might as well
be wallpaper, if people were really religious dogs would have


Eshte gjithmone nje trendafil,
ndoshta edhe prej reje,
ose i bere nga zeri im.

Eshte gjithmone nje yll qe fle e gdhihet te dritarja ime
dhe nje zog qe iken nga kafazi i qiellit,
eshte edhe hija jote ngjyregri qe lulezon.
Hija jote gjithmone me ka kujtuar
ngjyren e aeroporteve braktisur nga avionet.

Eshte nje mesdite qe zhvendos horizontet
dhe une ngjyros ylbere,
qe shirat nuk i kane njohur kurre,
qe ne diten e pare kur linden shirat.

Eshte nje mbremje qe thyen muzgun e vet dhe behet dite,
eshte nje ajer qe tringellin; keputen telat
dhe une kurdis violina te reja,
sepse gjithmone eshte e diel,
madje edhe me vite, kur vjen ti.

Frederik Rreshpja

Ja nje tjeter e ndjere:

“Beauty in a thing called Shit”


shit is subjective, like love, it can be brown, yellow, reddish, small, big, loose, painful, hard, exciting

bowels, however, don't discriminate like the heart does

that emotional organ only moves blood

from head to toe

but the shit that comes out of us is much more refined than love and high feelings

Oh yeah, those imaginary pains that we like to inflict in our minds

they're not like the real shit that we drop from our butt holes

“the pain that comes with the shit is the real one,” might argue an Existentialist

many Metaphors have been attributed to the heart and shit and crap and love and craziness

for some reason we need to create romantic hypothesis about these seemingly different things

the Freudian Nonsense School teaches us that Macho is Cool

if you want to get ahead in the toilet, matters of bills, mortgages, and benefits

it doesn't teach us how to have an orgasm though

penis envy and the rest are theoretical letters written on a piece of toilet paper

not applicable to my understanding of myself

and the beauty that




Experimental searchings

have aided in that

fuck sessions and sometimes love sessions

were also useful

those black symbols on the white pages

only diverted my attention from


Love or loveliness, sentiments, or shit

and closeness.


Fact of the fuck is

That it gives me ephemeral pleasure

like shit



and love.


Is beauty shit, or fuck, or vice versa?

Art elitists say “no,” “shit is kitsch, whereas beauty is high stuff,”

popular culture theorists refuse to deny it

they only care about the democracy of things

who blames them?

With all the Marxists, Post-Marxists, Cynics, Conservatives, Libertarians, Morons, Liberals, Proletarians, Middle-class Teachers and Doctors, Lower-middle-class Sales Assistants,


All want the Blame

to be put on each other.


As for me, Beauty is in my flowered-Vagina.

In the opening of my Butt,

In my Mouth when I eat Food and penises,

and Fish, and Chicken,

and deadly Sugar

when I drink Alcohol, and Sodas

In Sexual gratification, computer-aided, fantasy-created,

physically-provided, and what-not.


vdekte Tiku per ty!

Tiku me quan sofiste mua. smiley

Ja nje tjeter e ndjere

droge doje te thoje?

Ne çfare kuptimit droge? 

kur shpirti konsumohet nga truri si ne kete rast:

As for me, Beauty is in my flowered-Vagina.

In the opening of my Butt,

In my Mouth when I eat Food and penises,

and Fish, and Chicken,

and deadly Sugar

when I drink Alcohol, and Sodas

In Sexual gratification, computer-aided, fantasy-created,

physically-provided, and what-not.

dhe kur me keq akoma: nuk arrin t'a perceptosh. 

Eshte thjeshte nje qendrim mbi bukurine, si perceptim individual qe eshte. Dmth, mesazhi ketu eshte qe te gjithe kane te drejte te pelqejne ate qe i pelqen, brenda normalitetit njerezor kuptohet.

asnje i droguar nuk thote sinqerisht: "droga nuk eshte e mire" nese nuk eshte shkeputur perfundimisht prej saj. 

nuk e di nese e lexove shenimin qe te lashe per sa i perket filmit "Fatale". brenda normalitetit njerezor ishin edhe ngjarjet e atij filmi. por nuk besoj se do ia uroje dikujt pasojat qe u trajtuan ne film. dhe as ato qe nuk u trajtuan, por qe me ngjarjet qe ndodhen, personazhet e tjere do i vuanin me vone, brenda normalitetit njerezor kuptohet.

Je i sigurt qe i droguari “nuk thote sinqerisht droga nuk eshte e mire”? Je i sigurt qe i droguari tek ajo vjershe nuk i kupton aspektet negative dhe obsesive te bukurise qe ai percepton ose provon? Shiko fjalet “deadly sugar,” “alcohol,” dhe “sodas” per te kuptuar qe per autorin bukuria jep kenaqesi, por  mund te vije me bagazhin e varesise dhe degradimit. Perfundimisht, kjo vjershe eshte nje afrim, dhe pranim i personit me bukurine, por ne te njejten kohe percjell mesazhin qe nuk duhet mbivleresuar ne trajtimin qe i bejme. 

Kur shkruajta per Fatale si titull me i pershtatshem se Dammage, kisha ne mendje raportin pasional te dy protagonisteve bashke me pasojat qe solli. Fjala “dammage” percjell nje gjykim moral ose nje mesazh te forte, ndersa “fatale” paraqet realitetin ashtu siç eshte. Nuk besoj se qellimi i ketij filmi ishte percjellja e nje morali te veçante; eshte thjeshte rast i simiae naturae ose i artit qe imiton natyren. Njerezore, kuptohet.

atehere nuk eshte bukuri, por tip droge. sepse edhe droga kenaqesi (afatshkurter) e degradim (afatgjate) sjell. bukuria eshte e tille sepse sjell vetem kenaqesi. smiley

nese dikush ka shkruar nje liber me nje permbajtje te caktuar dhe nje tjeter mbi kete liber ka xhiruar nje film me po ate permbajtje, kane dashur t'i shprehin dicka lexuesit a shikuesit. por lexuesi apo shikuesi nuk eshte e thene te kuptoje pernjeheresh mesazhin. mund te kapet edhe pas formes apo detajeve e pastaj vdekjet e vuajtjet ne liber e film jane hollesira per te mbushur faqet apo minutazhin. arti imiton gjithnje natyren njerezore. por do ishte me mire te imitohej natyra njerezore qe nuk shkakton vdekje e vuajtje. biles kjo e fundit (natyra njerezore qe nuk shkakton vdekje e vuajtje) me mire se te imitohej do ishte thjesht te perjetohej. smiley

Bukuria perjetohet nepermjet kenaqesise qe rezulton ne konsumimin e saj, ne idealizimet qe i behen (tip droge), ne varesi (tip droge), si dhe ne teorite filozofike dhe kulturore qe mundohen ta shpjegojne se çfare eshte. 

Nuk jam dakord kur shkruan se bukuria sjell vetem kenaqesi. Si ilustrim, le te marrim shembullin e Pianistit (i realizuar nga Polansky) qe nuk te jep ndonje kenaqesi ne nje interpretim te pare te ketij koncepti abstrakt. A mund te thuash me te vertete se eshte nje film i pa bukur, ose i  shemtuar? Kemi kenaqesi edhe nga emocionet negative kur lexojme nje poezi, kur shikojme nje film, ose nje pikture. Pra, bukuria nuk kufizohet vetem tek ndjenjat e bukura qe na jep, por edhe tek vuajtja(etj.). 

Cdo njeri e perjeton bukurine ne menyre individuale qe per mua, nuk mund te ekzistoje pa vuajtje. Ke te drejte kur thua qe perjetimi eshte me i mire se imitimi, por nganjehere jane imitimet qe na ndihmojne te kujtojme natyren tone njerezore te humbur ne kete rutine qe eshte jeta.

e shoh se do te te duhet t'i perjetosh ato qe une shpresoja te t'i qartesoja me fjale. por them se nuk bera gabim t'a provoj. vuajtjen nuk t'a uroj hic gjithsesi. smiley

Edhe dhimbja eshte e bukur Filanfistek. Nuk ta uroj, por te keshilloj qe ta vleresosh me shume. smiley

zdu smiley

Ok ne rregull! Nqs bota eshte e bukur ne menyren si e shef ti, aq me mire! smiley


si ishte ajo barcoleta?

Cila? Nuk kam njohuri ne barcaleta shqiptare...

Ah po ajo. smiley

Kjo eshte e ndjere dhe e sinqerte.

"Old Love Story," Allen Gingsberg

Some think the love of boys is wicked in the world, forlorn

Character corrupting, worthy mankind's scorn

Or eyes that weep and breasts that ache for lovely youth

Have no mouth to speak for mankind's general truth

Nor hands to work manhood's fullest delight

Nor hearts to make old women smile day and night

Nor arms to warm young girls to dream of love

Nor thighs to satisfy thighs, nor breath men can approve --

Yet think back to the time our epic world was new

When Gilgamesh followed the shade of his friend Enkidu

Into Limbo's dust to talk love man to man

So younger David enamored of young Jonathan

Wrote songs that women and men still chant for calm

Century after century under evergreen or palm

A love writ so sacred on our bible leaf

That heartfire warms cold milennial grief.

Same time Akilleos won the war at Troy

Grieving Patroklos' body, his dead warrior boy

(One nation won the world by reading Greek for this

And fell when Wilde was gaoled for his Bellboy's kiss)

Marvellous Zeus himself took lightning eagle shape

Down-cheeked Ganymede enjoyed God's thick-winged rape

And lived a youth forever, forever as can be,

Serving his nectar to the bearded deity

The whole world knew the story, the whole world laughed in awe

That such love could be the Thunder of immortal Law.

When Socrates climbed his ladder of love's degrees

He put his foot in silence on rough Alcibiades

Wise men still read Plato, whoever they are,

Plato whose love-lad Aster was his morning star

Plato whose love-lad was in death his star of Night

Which Shelly once witnessed as eternal light.

Catullus and tough Horace were slaves to glad young men

Loved them, cursed them, always fell in love again

Caesar conquered the world, top Emperor Power

Lay soft on the breast of his soldier of the hour

Even Jesus Christ loved his young John most

Later he showed him the whole Heavenly Host

Old Rome approved a beautiful bodied youth

Antinus Hadrian worshipped with Imperial Truth


Told in the calm gaze of his hundred stone

Statues standing fig-leafed in the Vatican.

Michelangelo lifted his young hand to smooth

The belly of his Bacchus, a sixteen-year youth

Whose prick stands up he's drunk, his eyes gaze side-

Ways to his right hand held up shoulder high

Waving a cup of grape, smart kid, his nose is sharp,

His lips are new, slightly opened as if parted to take a sip of purple nakedness,

Taste Michelangelo's mortal-bearded kiss,

Or if a hair-hooved horny Satyr happens to pass

Fall to the ground on his strong little marble ass.

Michelangelo loved him! What young stud

Stood without trousers or shirt, maybe even did

What the creator wanted him to in bed

Lay still with the sculptor's hand cupped on his head

Feeling up his muscles, feeling down his bones

Palm down his back and thighs, touching his soft stones --

What kind of men were the Slaves he tied to his bed?

And who stood still for David naked foot to head?

But men love the muscles of David's abdomen

And come with their women to see him again and again.

Enough, I've stayed up all night with these boys

And all my life enjoyed their handsome joys

I came with many companions to this Dawn

Now I am tired and must set my pen down

Reader, Hearer, this time Understand

How kind it is for man to love a man,

Old love and Present, future love the same

Hear and Read what love is without shame.

I want people to understand! They can! They can! They can!

So open your ears and hear the voice of the classical Band.

dy pikeza nga oqeani i bukurise shpirterore nga dy kombe qe kane dhene shume ne kulturen boterore. keto dy strofa me erdhen ndermend nga dy kenge shume te kendeshme:


Знаю - будут и другие встречи,
Год за годом пролетят года.
Но вот этот тихий летний вечер
Мы с тобою не забудем никогда.



Μια σκέψη έκανα για σένα
μια δεύτερη για μας τους δυο.
Είμασταν μόνοι, γίναμε ένα
και τώρα πάλι είμαστε δυο. 

clue dhe ti si Kopshtija qenke poliglot...të lumtë!

qejfe qejfe kjo dynja, qejfi qejfit nuk i ngja!

E' strano! e' strano! in core
Scolpiti ho quegli accenti!
Sari'a per me sventura un serio amore?
Che risolvi, o turbata anima mia?
Null'uomo ancora t'accendeva O gioia
Ch'io non conobbi, essere amata amando!
E sdegnarla poss'io
Per l'aride follie del viver mio?
Ah, fors'e' lui che l'anima
Solinga ne' tumulti
Godea sovente pingere
De' suoi colori occulti!
Lui che modesto e vigile
All'egre soglie ascese,
E nuova febbre accese,
Destandomi all'amor.
A quell'amor ch'e' palpito
Dell'universo intero,
Misterioso, altero,
Croce e delizia al cor.
A me fanciulla, un candido
E trepido desire
Questi effigio' dolcissimo
Signor dell'avvenire,
Quando ne' cieli il raggio
Di sua belta' vedea,
E tutta me pascea
Di quel divino error.
Senti'a che amore e' palpito
Dell'universo intero,
Misterioso, altero,
Croce e delizia al cor!
(Resta concentrata un istante, poi dice)

Follie! follie delirio vano e' questo!
Povera donna, sola
Abbandonata in questo
Popoloso deserto
Che appellano Parigi,
Che spero or piu'?
Che far degg'io!
Di volutta' nei vortici perire.
Sempre libera degg'io
Folleggiar di gioia in gioia,
Vo' che scorra il viver mio
Pei sentieri del piacer,
Nasca il giorno, o il giorno muoia,
Sempre lieta ne' ritrovi
A diletti sempre nuovi
Dee volare il mio pensier.


How strange it is... how strange!
Those words are carved upon my heart!
Would true love bring me misfortune?
What do you think, o my troubled spirit?
No man before kindled a flame like this.
Oh, joy…
I never knew…
To love and be loved!
Can I disdain this
For a life of sterile pleasure?
Was this the man my heart,
Alone in a crowd,
Delighted many times to paint
In vague, mysterious colours?
This man so watchful yet retiring,
Who haunted my sick-bed
And turned my fever
Into a burning flame of love!
That love,
The pulse of the whole world,
Mysterious, unattainable,
The torment and delight of my heart.

It’s madness. It’s empty delirium!
A poor, lonely woman
Abandoned in this teeming desert
They call Paris!
What can I hope? What should I do?
Enjoy myself? Purge into the vortex
Of pleasure and drown there!
Enjoy myself


"You Whose Name," Czeslaw Milosz

You whose name is aggressor and devourer. 
Putrid and sultry, in fermentation. 
You mash into pulp sages and prophets, 
Criminals and heroes, indifferently. 
My vocativus is useless. 
You do not hear me, though I address you, 
Yet I want to speak, for I am against you. 
So what if you gulp me, I am not yours. 
You overcome me with exhaustion and fever. 
You blur my thought, which protests, 
You roll over me, dull unconscious power. 
The one who will overcome you is swift, armed: 
Mind, spirit, maker, renewer. 
He jousts with you in depths and on high, 
Equestrian, winged, lofty, silver-scaled. 
I have served him in the investiture of forms. 
It’s not my concern what he will do with me.

A retinue advances in the sunlight by the lakes. 
From white villages Easter bells resound. 

"Barnacle," by Isabel Galleymore


Once, Barnacle was a larva
passing through 5 instars.


This was his most creative period –
voicing his body differently


in response to the waters

that warmed or cooled.


Then Barnacle committed

to the underneath of Endeavour.


Barnacle is cemented
to this boat by his forehead:


a tiny writer hunched over a desk
in the corner of a squat ivory tower.


He travels the world without realising –

only sometimes his operculum doors


slide open and his feathery limbs

filter, select, draw the outside in.


"Ariel," Sylvia Plath

Stasis in darkness.
Then the substanceless blue   
Pour of tor and distances.
God’s lioness,   
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees!—The furrow
Splits and passes, sister to   
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,
Berries cast dark   
Black sweet blood mouthfuls,   
Something else
Hauls me through air—
Thighs, hair;
Flakes from my heels.
Godiva, I unpeel—
Dead hands, dead stringencies.
And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.   
The child’s cry
Melts in the wall.   
And I
Am the arrow,
The dew that flies
Suicidal, at one with the drive   
Into the red
Eye, the cauldron of morning.

 "A Dialogue of Some Importance," Michael Heller


One’s hand. Its whole existence.

Miniscule things it seeks to grasp.


the hand that moves to touch,

lost by the mind before it moves,

so who propels it thus?


Her nipple. A crumb. The furled edge of a tissue.

Surely there is some charm to rolling bread

into small resilient balls, casting them off

the fingertips to squawking ducks.


is it only an emissary,

a move of a heart in flight,

to mark where, in outward scenery,

it seeks to lodge itself?


Often, I am swamped by incredible pleasure,

by the wild connection a thing makes between

my thumb and finger, as though desperately alive

in some galvanic dance. Ouroboros tastes his own tail,


self love? love’s self?

who guides a hand knows

the horror of attached.


but I have made deities

out of the lint of carpets,

metallic granules and snotballs,

especially out of lost eyeglass screws.


I am a rose of Sharon,
    a lily of the valleys.


Like a lily among thorns
    is my darling among the young women.


Like an apple[c] tree among the trees of the forest
    is my beloved among the young men.
I delight to sit in his shade,
    and his fruit is sweet to my taste.
 Let him lead me to the banquet hall,
    and let his banner over me be love.
 Strengthen me with raisins,
    refresh me with apples,
    for I am faint with love.
 His left arm is under my head,
    and his right arm embraces me.
 Daughters of Jerusalem, I charge you
    by the gazelles and by the does of the field:
Do not arouse or awaken love
    until it so desires.

 Listen! My beloved!
    Look! Here he comes,
leaping across the mountains,
    bounding over the hills.
 My beloved is like a gazelle or a young stag.
    Look! There he stands behind our wall,
gazing through the windows,
    peering through the lattice.
 My beloved spoke and said to me,
    “Arise, my darling,
    my beautiful one, come with me.
 See! The winter is past;
    the rains are over and gone.
 Flowers appear on the earth;
    the season of singing has come,
the cooing of doves
    is heard in our land.
 The fig tree forms its early fruit;
    the blossoming vines spread their fragrance.
Arise, come, my darling;
    my beautiful one, come with me.”


My dove in the clefts of the rock,
    in the hiding places on the mountainside,
show me your face,
    let me hear your voice;
for your voice is sweet,
    and your face is lovely.
 Catch for us the foxes,
    the little foxes
that ruin the vineyards,
    our vineyards that are in bloom.


My beloved is mine and I am his;
    he browses among the lilies.
 Until the day breaks
    and the shadows flee,
turn, my beloved,
    and be like a gazelle
or like a young stag
    on the rugged hills.

"A Dab-toothed Grin Virus," Mark Burnhope

An abnominal for Sir David Attenborough

A brass adventurist as o’ ages ago; a rough abrader 
Against religious agenda; soothing birder, birthroot 

O’ great ideas; agitator o’ both hunter and abattoir.
Genius. Our antennae never avoided his adroitness.

Attuned atheist: averse to ignorance but no tussles; 
Servant o’ both endangered beasts and good hearts.

Even the trees – Arborvitae, grown-on or evolved,
Arranged high and round – strain to hear him read

His ideas. A dab-hand, a devoted learner-herder, he 
Bears gritted-teeth to see a berg damaged or eroded. 

No honest brother denies he has grinned as a teen,
At the absurd designation: Great Tit. He told us it, 

Didn’t he? Talented author, the best nature narrator,
Avant-gardist: rider o’ religion and Giant Tortoises. 

Nineties TV thrived on bandaged stoats and badgers,
Anteaters raiding mounds, sea otters (so overdone).

That shit hasn’t died. But these TV trends, traditions, 
He set. Our revisionist brings a told threat to bathos 

In his bright, irreverent demeanour. Bite o’ an adder 
But no sting; nearer to ‘God’ and other grand designs.

"Ironing," Tina Bass

a much anticipated moment
blotched because I saw her


as I lay myself upon you
seeing all of that
attention to creases


Celi trendafili i kuq te porta ne mengjes,
si vetetime.
Keshtu erdhi dikur nje vajze me shall te kuq
e trokiti te porta.

Tani nuk jam me i ri dhe ngjyrat i ngaterroj;
Ndoshta ky eshte nje trendafil i bardhe,
ndoshta ky eshte nje trendafil blu.

Megjitheate e di: erdhi nje trendafil me shall,
dhe nje vajze celi gjethe tek porta.

Frederik Rreshpja

@ Pf, you'd appreciate this.

Don Juan, the Mexican Yaqui Indian shaman, tells Carlos Castaneda the following:

"We have a predator that came from the depths of the cosmos and took over the
rule of our lives. Human beings are its prisoners. The predator is our lord and
master. It has rendered us docile, helpless. If we want to protest, it suppresses our
protest. If we want to act independently, it demands that we don't do so... I have
been beating around the bush all this time, insinuating to you that something is
holding us prisoner. Indeed we are held prisoner!
"This was an energetic fact for the sorcerers of ancient Mexico ... They took us
over because we are food for them, and they squeeze us mercilessly because we are
their sustenance. Just as we rear chickens in chicken coops, the predators rear us in
human coops, humaneros. Therefore, their food is always available to them."
"No, no, no, no," [Carlos replies] "This is absurd don Juan. What you're saying is
something monstrous. It simply can't be true, for sorcerers or for average men, or
for anyone."
"Why not?" don Juan asked calmly. "Why not? Because it infuriates you? ... You
haven't heard all the claims yet. I want to appeal to your analytical mind. Think for
a moment, and tell me how you would explain the contradictions between the
intelligence of man the engineer and the stupidity of his systems of beliefs, or the
stupidity of his contradictory behaviour. Sorcerers believe that the predators have
given us our systems of belief, our ideas of good and evil, our social mores. They
are the ones who set up our hopes and expectations and dreams of success or
failure. They have given us covetousness, greed, and cowardice. It is the predators
who make us complacent, routinary, and egomaniacal."
'"But how can they do this, don Juan?' [Carlos] asked, somehow angered further
by what [don Juan] was saying. "Do they whisper all that in our ears while we are
"'No, they don't do it that way. That's idiotic!" don Juan said, smiling. "They are
infinitely more efficient and organized than that. In order to keep us obedient and
meek and weak, the predators engaged themselves in a stupendous manoeuvre -
XX Children of the Matrix

stupendous, of course, from the point of view of a fighting strategist. A horrendous

manoeuvre from the point of view of those who suffer it. They gave us their mind!
Do you hear me? The predators give us their mind, which becomes our mind. The
predators' mind is baroque, contradictory, morose, filled with the fear of being
discovered any minute now."
"I know that even though you have never suffered hunger... you have food
anxiety, which is none other than the anxiety of the predator who fears that any
moment now its manoeuvre is going to be uncovered and food is going to be
denied. Through the mind, which, after all, is their mind, the predators inject into
the lives of human beings whatever is convenient for them. And they ensure, in this
manner, a degree of security to act as a buffer against their fear."
"The sorcerers of ancient Mexico were quite ill at ease with the idea of when [the
predator] made its appearance on Earth. They reasoned that man must have been a
complete being at one point, with stupendous insights, feats of awareness that are
mythological legends nowadays. And then, everything seems to disappear, and we
have now a sedated man. What I'm saying is that what we have against us is not a
simple predator. It is very smart, and organized. It follows a methodical system to
render us useless. Man, the magical being that he is destined to be, is no longer
magical. He's an average piece of meat."
"There are no more dreams for man but the dreams of an animal who is being
raised to become a piece of meat: trite, conventional, imbecilic."

Lost, jam kurioz. Po lexon librin, apo keto jane fragmente te librit te perdorura diku?

Kjo pastaj eshte pak kontradiktore me duket mua, me teresine e lidhjeve te drejtperdrejta energjitke te njeriut me universin dhe me te ashtuquajteren shqiponje qe konsumon produktin final. Megjithate sistemi i Don Juanit eshte i pakontestueshem pjeserisht, pasi eshte nje whole different lifestyle njekohesisht i ndikuar nga vecorite potenciale energjitike te cdo individi. Me nje llaf, pa e bere vete dhe pa pasur eksperienca te drejtperdrejta personale,  nuk mund te hysh ne diskutime filozofike. Hmmm I don't know man...I don't know. But it is as scary as hell.

Librin e kam lexuar. Me kete kuote u ndesha diku tjeter, e me rikujtoi se si ky revelacion, pohim, e vertete  e Don Juan-it, qendron ne thelb te gjendjes njerezore - eshte pika qe kushtezon kete gjendje, mbi "tejkalimin, kapercimin dhe 'evoluimin'" e se ciles perballet vete njeriu, e ku me tej mbeshteten filozofia dhe mesimet e shamanit. 

pershkrim i mire i logosit me perjashtim te predatoreve jashtetokesore. ata predatore jemi vete ne, nese do kufizohemi me pafundesine e logosit (prandaj dhe vjersha Barbaret nga Rreshpja). fatmiresisht nuk eshte ky thelbi i qenies njerezore, por shpirti. perkufizimi i shpirtit si perceptues i dashurise eshte i pamundur prej logosit dhe kjo e ben kete ne rastin me te mire te varur nga shpirti. te menduarit ne pergjithesi dhe filozofia ne vecanti jane pjese e logosit. legjitimimi i vetem i tyre vec, mbetet dashuria. cdo nderveprim tjeter midis logosit dhe shpirtit con ne rastin me te mire ne vuajtje, ne me te keqin ne humbje jete. prandaj dhe alibite, skemat dhe gjithfare shpikjesh te logosit nese nuk legjitimohen prej dashurise jane budallallek.    


Barbaret iken. Po nga vane? Askush nuk i pa.
Asnjeri nuk e di nga shkuan.
Mirepo barbaret ishin.
Te vraret jane aty, por barbare, thone, nuk ka patur kurre.

Po kuja e atij mengjesi me te renet mes xhadese?
Kur erdhi nata, nje hene e trishtuar
ne llambadhen e saj mblidhte shpirtrat ne ajer.
Tymi i zi mbi uzinat dhe fshatrat e shkaterruara,
mijera rrenime barbaresh.
E megjithate, thone, barbare nuk ka patur kurre.

Atehere pame njeri-tjetrin ne sy
dhe e kuptuam qe barbaret ishim vete.
Ah, prandaj asnjeri nuk e diti nga shkuan barbaret?!

Mirepo barbaret ishin, ose, te pakten duheshin shpikur.

Frederik Rreshpja

Edhe kete vjershen nga ne pellazget e paskan vjedh


Waiting for the barbarians

What are we waiting for, assembled in the forum?
            The barbarians are due here today.
Why isn’t anything happening in the senate?
Why do the senators sit there without legislating?
            Because the barbarians are coming today.
            What laws can the senators make now?
            Once the barbarians are here, they’ll do the legislating.
Why did our emperor get up so early,
and why is he sitting at the city’s main gate
on his throne, in state, wearing the crown?
            Because the barbarians are coming today
            and the emperor is waiting to receive their leader.
            He has even prepared a scroll to give him,
            replete with titles, with imposing names.
Why have our two consuls and praetors come out today
wearing their embroidered, their scarlet togas?
Why have they put on bracelets with so many amethysts,
and rings sparkling with magnificent emeralds?
Why are they carrying elegant canes
beautifully worked in silver and gold?
            Because the barbarians are coming today
            and things like that dazzle the barbarians.
Why don’t our distinguished orators come forward as usual
to make their speeches, say what they have to say?
            Because the barbarians are coming today
            and they’re bored by rhetoric and public speaking.
Why this sudden restlessness, this confusion?
(How serious people’s faces have become.)
Why are the streets and squares emptying so rapidly,
everyone going home so lost in thought?
            Because night has fallen and the barbarians have not come.
            And some who have just returned from the border say
            there are no barbarians any longer.

mendimet jane njelloj per te tere. e vodhi kush nga kush nuk duhej te ishte ceshtje. ceshtja duhej te ishte: a na nevojiten ato qe bejme dhe nese po, per cfare?

Për të komentuar tek Peshku pa ujë, ju duhet të identifikoheni ose të regjistroheni (regjistrimi është falas).