Krenar Zejno is a poet, writer and author of several works on literature and art. He is the author of nine volumes of poetry: Promenada (The Promenade), Epika e dehur (The Drunken Epic), Album me ninanana (Lullaby Album), Shkronjë…(Letter), Sikurqenia (Almostbeing), Autostoppërnë Re minor (Hitchhiking to Re Minor), Hyllirikum (Hylliricum), AmorDheu (AmorEarth), Erotikrisht në kohën e shkruar (Erotichrist in Times Past) and of the novel Legjenda M (Legend M) (first volume), and essays Këmba e të panjohurës (The Leg of the Unknown), Lavd i librit (Eloges to the Book).
Krenar Zejno is also an art curator and editor: he is the founder and director of Zenit Editions and the Zenit Art gallery in Tirana. He has written the introductions of Albanian Publications of some of the masterpieces of world literature, such as works by Balzac, Beckett, Celine, Cioran, Hrabal, Joyce, Orwell, Stein, Sun Tzu, Swift, Melville etc.
Zejno has been invited and has participated in many international poetry events such as Struga Festival of Poetry – FYROM Macedonia, VoixVives Festival de la PoesieSete – France, Festival Internazionale di Poesia – Genoa, Italy and LiteraryArc International Festival of Poetry –Yerevan, Armenia, 2015.
Title: AmorDheu (AmorEarth)
Place of Publication: TiranaTirana
Year of Publication: 2012
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The Milky Way
My verses bleed and craze from plagiarism all
They are wounded overtures of play with the hoods of town
Then, wounds that mark the scabs of the first term at school
So they could live and incarnate the second term
They’re leaking wound, spread over a wee body
Over knee-caps or underneath, caused by nail fights or quarrel or hugs
All those marks on a throat, dried blood on a brow, the fractured skull,
As they lull the slumbering wound at the shin-bone.
My verses are plagiarisms of timid humble music staffs
All the monadic wounds over a kid chevalier, when he fell
Off a wooden horse who saddled by his chain of daydreams
Asking: – Where to? and God-speed to you, kiddo!
This is no race of meek horses here, where my horse carries me,
There’s no nag here; he just knows his speed and still desire-less
Yet gallops towards a threshold, he’s not seeking a home!
And not my home neither! the one with damp walls where colons of moss
Dripped like semi-colons, amidst vines and hazel and strawberries
The rhyme–bulbs, all those woods and deer and bucks and woodpeckers,
And that bitter bite on the apple, where
My milk teeth are still plugged in
The springs slide not pompously, unceasingly
Behind the hills’ back and
The hours pervade the sun’s hamlet
In so slow a pace
Over a wench winter they graze
Laying out furrows on waste times
Without any ill will nor harm or dire
Neither evil nor they make events
The waned pendulum on the wall
Of a freshly painted inn
Is newly hanged there again by the suny people
Of this shore
Cross-weaving in a summer loom
They envy that Sisyphus hand
And sting its fatal downfall
The extract is translated from the Albanian by Idlir Azizi