Your body is my map

 

 

 
(c) Eni Turkeshi Imagery

My latest photography project, was inspired by a great poem by Nizar Qabbani.You can read the poem ,below.
And you can view the  whole project here

Your body is my map
by Nizar Qabbani

Raise me more love… raise me
my prettiest fits of madness
O’ dagger’s journey… in my flesh
and knife’s plunge…
sink me further my lady…
the sea calls me
add to me more death …
perhaps as death slays me… I’m revived
your body is my map…
the world's map no longer concerns me…
I am the oldest capital of sadness…
and my wound a Pharaonic engraving
my pain…. extends like an oil patch
from Beirut… to China…
my pain… a caravan…dispatched
by the Caliphs of "A’Chaam"… to China…
in the seventh century of the "Birth"…
and lost in a dragon’s mouth…
bird of my heart… "my April"
O’ sand of the sea, and forests of olives
O’ taste of snow, and taste of fire…
my heathen flavor, and insight
I feel scared of the unknown… shelter me
I feel scared of the darkness… embrace me
I feel cold… cover me up
tell me children stories…
rest beside me…
Chant to me…
since from the start of creation
I’ve been searching for a homeland to my forehead…
for a woman’s hair…
that writes me on the walls… then erases me…
for a woman’s love… to take me
to the borders of the sun… and throws me…
from a woman’s lip… as she makes me
like dust of powdered gold…
shine of my life. my fan
my lantern. declaration of my orchards
stretch me a bridge with the scent of oranges…
and place me like an ivory comb…
in the darkness of your hair… then forget me
I am a drop of water… ambivalent
remaining in the notebook of October
your love crushes me…
like a mad horse from the Caucasus throwing me under its hoofs…
and gargles with the water of my eyes…
add to me more fury… add to me
O’ prettiest fits of my madness
for your sake I set free my women
and effaced my birth certificate
and cut all my arteries…

Rrotullime rreth shpirtit

© Eni Turkeshi Photography

Eja , hape syrin e shpirtit

Eja,hape syrin e shpirtit

pa shikoji keta te dashuruar :

Si jane rrethuar krejtesisht

si nje zemer e vetme,

si kane marre formen e nje shpirti

pa duar e pa kembe.

Jane me te qeshur se nje bahce,

se nje trendafil.

jane me te drejte se dituria

me te afte se vete mendja

me te lire se selvia

Me te kthjellet e me te qarte se uji i pavdekesise

Jane perhere lozonjare si atomet.

Dielli eshte kaftani i tyre

E kane shkelur balten ,

mbeshtetur koken ne gjurin e zemres

Kane kaluar siper gjakrave

siper dallgeve te detrave te pergjakur.

Por veshjet i kane serish te pastra

dhe te paperlyera.

Jane mes gjembave , por si trendafila.

Jane brenda burgut , por si vere.

Jane brenda baltes ,por si nje zemer.

Jane brenda nates , por si nje mengjes,

Ti provo te pish nje here nga vera e tyre dhe shih

sesi papritmas, qetesohet

ndricohet zemra jote,

si harrohet cdo gje,

si fillojne te te qeshin syte.

Mevlana Jalal ad-din Muhammad Rumi

The poem of being lonely

i thought to share with you another lovely poem of the great Orhan Veli tonight..hope you'll enjoy..



© Eni Turkeshi Photography

THE POEM OF BEING LONELY

They don't know,
Those who don't live alone,
How frightening is
Soundlessness;
How a person talks to himself,
How he runs to mirrors,
Hungry for a soul,
They don't know it.

Orhan Veli (Translated by Murat Nemet-Nejat, 1989)

source:
http://www.istanbullife.org/poetry_istanbul.htm

Tribute to Migjeni

'Millosh Gjergj Nikolla' (October 13, 1911 - August 26, 1938) (aka Miđoni/Migjeni, Miloš Đoka Nikolić) was born in Shkodër, Albania . He would become one of the leading figures in Albanian literature.

Migjeni attended elementary school in Shkodër at the Serbian language school there and later at St. John's Orthodox Seminary in Bitola (Bitolj/Manastir), then Kingdom of Serbia (now Republic of Macedonia). There he studied Russian, French Greek and Latin and read literature written in those languages. On his return to Albania, he gave up his intended career as a priest to become a school teacher in Vraka, a Serb village a few miles from Shkodër. He began writing verse and prose sketches in Albanian. Having contracted tuberculosis, which was then endemic in Albania, he went for treatment to Turin in northern Italy where his sister Olga was studying mathematics. After some time in a sanatorium there, he was transferred to the Waldensian Hospital in Torre Pellice where he died at the age of twenty-six.

During the 1930s, the position of the Serb minority deteriorated as Serb schools were closed down by King Zog. Thus, the author had to Albanize his name and chose the nom-de-plume Mi-Gje-Ni in order to preserve his heritage. The acrostic was formed by the first two letters each of his first name, patronymic (the Serbian equivalent 'đ/ђ' of Albanian 'gj' is one letter) and last name.

His slender volume of verse (thirty-five poems) entitled Vargjet e Lira (Free Verse) was printed by Gutenberg Press in Tiranë in 1936, but was banned by the authorities. The second edition, published in 1944, was missing two old poems Parathanja e parathanjeve (Preface of prefaces) and Blasfemi (Blasphemy) that were deemed offensive, but it did include eight new ones. The main theme of Migjeni was misery and suffering, a reflection of the life he saw and lived.
source: http://www.knowledgerush.com/kr/encyclopedia/Millosh_Gjergj_Nikolla/








Autumn on parade

Autumn in nature and autumn in our faces.
The sultry breeze enfeebles, the glowering sun
Oppresses the ailing spirit in our breasts,
Shrivels the life trembling among the twigs of a poplar.
The yellow colours twirl in the final dance,
(A frantic desire of leaves dying one by one).
Our joys, passions, our ultimate desires
Fall and are trampled in the autumn mud.

An oak tree, reflected in the tears of heaven,
Tosses and bleeds in gigantic passion.
"To live! I want to live!" - it fights for breath,
Piercing the storm with cries of grief.

The horizon, drowned in fog, joins in
The lamentation. In prayer dejected fruit trees
Fold imploring branches - but in vain, they know.
Tomorrow they will die... Is there nowhere hope?

The eye is saddened. Saddened, too, the heart
At the hour of death, when silent fall the veins
And from the grave to the highest heavens soar
Despairing cries of long-unheeded pain.

Autumn in nature and autumn in our faces.
Moan, desires, offspring of poverty,
Groan in lamentation, bewail the corpses,
That adorn this autumn among the withered branches.

Great Translation by Robert Elsie