Krenar Zejno

krenar-yejnoKrenar 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.

amordheuTitle: AmorDheu  (AmorEarth)

Place of Publication: TiranaTirana

Year of Publication: 2012 

Publisher: Zenit

Genre: Poetry

ISBN: 978-9928-113-14-9

© all rights reserved to  Zenit Publishing House zenit_art@yahoo.com

 

 

 

 

 

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 Oread

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

Temptation

To pinching

Of town

Stings

 

 

The extract is translated from the Albanian by Idlir Azizi