Sabina Veizaj

 sabina-veizajSabina Viktor Veizaj was born in Berat on 3 March 1982 and grew up in Fier, where she studied at Janaq Kilica High School. She studied Journalism at the University in Tirana – Faculty of History and Philology during 2001-2005. She then earned her Master Degree in Political Sciences. She has been working in the field of media for several years.  At present, she is working as a reporter/journalist of economy at Top Show in Top Channel. With her first book Myshku i Muzgut (The Moss of the Dusk) she was part of the Albanian Young Writers, an anthology published in Zagreb in Croatian Language. It was in the framework of a festival called “Small Literatures”. Veizaj was also awarded the First Prize at the International Festival of Literature which was held in Podujeva in 2012.

 

 

 

myshku-i-muzgutTitle: Myshku i Muzgut (The Moss of the Dusk)

Place of Publication: Durres

Year of Publication: 2014

Publisher: Adonis

Genre: Poetry

 

 

 

 

 

 

Description: The poems of this book are characterised by the bravery of voicing loudly the truth of different phenomena happening in the society we live in every day. These poems were written in free verse and rich metaphoric language. The love for others in its purest form covers the content of all these poems. Vaid Hyzoti, one of the book’s editors describes them as social and shocking poems with a glowing sadness but deep human feelings and good, appropriate wording.

 

Wanton Mothers

My paranoid schemes dictated me

that all mothers are noble, like mine

however wantons are women, even men

But…, Oh Lord, wantons are mothers too!

 

Wanton mothers conceived during red moons

while the lightning it’s not heard in the whole life

and the drama sleeps under the pillows of fear.

Where the candle hides the crocodile tears

and the fatigues are baptized with a saddle.

 

Wanton mothers hide identities,

who knows how they estimate bellies

Wanton mothers abort, they are even afraid

of the loosed moral.

Sow wool in the eyes of the umbrellas

which from the cloudburst protect them the whole life.

 

Wanton mothers feign loving children,

even the Fathers, of whom?!

Ah, mothers, these mothers who dishonor children

and letting them wounded.

 

These mothers are calculating machines.

Climbing the stairs with beautiful eyes and smiles.

These mothers are bisque dolls

which children and men burden upon their back, but they’re needed.

 

Ah, forlorn belly!

Wombfactory that produces tar and guiltless children.

Wanton mothers, bellies like unhinged seasons,

among the equator and north poles!

 

Ah, mother of mine, deity of mine!

You the difference of filled bellies!

You mother like noble mothers

You mother who give love, your love of

a truthful Mother!

 

 

Love and poppies

Onto a white horse

Bohemian of dreams

With the soil on the back

I start off to a warring country

To plant poppies

Perhaps by stepping on graves,

Perhaps shedding tears over green corpses

Perhaps waiting with the strong

Palms of love cartridges which

Perhaps like a metaphor I would like to use towards other innocents

But I am a dreams daughter and the dream is my Daughter

And I demolish boundaries

I tread guns with the silvery horseshoes of the white horse

And I planter poppies in the soil I carry on the back

And stretch out the hand

This time I can make thee a place right after the soil, by the side of my back

Tired of waiting

Forget the war!

Take the seed of the poppies and throw it behind your back

To let us heirs of our bohemian loving path

With the life, the sacrifice, the termless love for the neighbour

We can let the selfishness in the lap of the dead

And of the villains who want to fight to the death

We can fight to make love and plant flowers

Stretch out thy hand to me!

So I can make thee happy,

You who resemble to the soil so closely

And you want to overthrow it

Now that I have it on my back we can do it easily

It would be sufficient to make love and plant flowers

Because I want to make you happy

A tiny wish

Which chants by murmuring

Under the horseshoes of the white horse.

 

The extract is translated from the Albanian by Sait Saiti