The Dreep

July 31, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Joe Sharp

What can I dae aboot this continual dreepin’
Frae my nose a’ the day even when I’m sleepin’
The Doctor says he can dae naethin’ aboot it
He said it’s no’ like somethin’ ye can take it oot an’ shoot it

I went tae the Chemist tae pick up my prescription
An’ afore I went in, I gave my hooter a good blow
But as I bent o’er the counter tae sign my description
Water frae the well o’ my nasal canal began tae flow

The lassie was awfy good an’ didnae make it an issue
She just went roon’ the back
An’ when she came back
She gave me a big paper tissue

In the Post Office oot o’ the rain
An’ I noticed my sleeve was a’ damp
Wi’ wipin’ the dreep as I walked down the street
It was handy for stickin’ the stamp

It’s no’ bad today, now I’ve found a way
A good way tae kick it
I just lick it.


Regime argonais?

July 30, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Quelques Montignaciens, au cours d'une excursion,
s'étant hâtés vers un ibère restaurant,
se virent refuser, pour leur consommation,
des paellas, quand le patron dit, se marrant:
"Allez, le premier, là, l'gros, goûte le safran!"

( le Zappe )


Hello Moon

July 29, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Kim McMillon

The moon fell into the ocean

amiss the cloudy night

colored eyes gazed out

trying to capture

every emotion

every feeling

I was gliding

falling with the moon

into a sea of sensuality.


I am a hill of poetry

July 20, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

first poem in a poem cycle in progress 1995/2007

The title of this cycle is taken from The Song of Amergin:

"said to have been chanted by the chief bard of the Milesian invaders as he set foot on the soil of Ireland in the year of the world 2376 (1268 B.C.E)". Written originally in Old Goidelic, the only surviving versions are in colloquial Irish translation.

The phrase 'I am a hill of poetry' represents knowledge and is assigned to the month of September, which has the vine as its tree and is the month of the titmouse and the poet "the least abashed of men as the titmouse is the least easily abashed of birds. Both band together in companies in this month and go on circuit in search of a liberal hand; and as the titmouse climbs spirally up a tree, so the poet also spirals to immortality. And Variegated is the colour of the titmouse, and of the Master-poet’s dress."

— Robert Graves, The White Goddess, pp. 205-208, p. 299

Note: This cycle of 13 poems is based on the lunar calendar Robert Graves describes in The White Goddess. Each month is associated with specific natural/mystical characteristics and a particular tree.

The cycle consists of a poem for each month based on a particular person’s birth date and character.

Karen Margolis

Berlin, 2011

I am a hill of poetry

on the birth of Quila Lulu Anastasia

14 January 1995

I am a hill of poetry

my tip houses an eagle’s nest

where dreams hatch into song

my base flows into the well of life

to join the subterranean rivers

in caves that echo with the playing of a dulcimer;

my belly is filled with the runes of ages

and the hand of the bard strokes my mound

like a mother caressing the head of her infant child.

Precious ores run in my deepest veins

mingling with the pulsing rhythms of the earth

in lustrous ecstasy. Rhymes

flick their tongues from the mouths of lizards

lying sundrenched in my surface crannies.

In summer grass covers my gentle slopes,

in autumn the tree gods shower me with colour,

in winter my thoughts are naked, unashamed,

and when the year wakes to spring again

I’m still there, breeding lilacs and hexameters

I am a hill of poetry.

Enter my gates carved by the singers of psalms

to let in the light at the winter solstice.

Crawl through the tunnel maze to my ancient mystery:

the journey is long and hard

the rebirth into poetry is spiked with pain

and promises only rediscovery

of what life takes away

each day we grow farther from childhood.

I am a hill of poetry.

Come inside me. All my passages spread out

like starry beams. In my hollow core

bowls of incense fill the air with perfume

a bed of feathers is waiting for your weary tune.

Lie down. Close your eyes.

Shut out straying conversations.

Drift on a tide of rapturous melancholy

down to castles hung with tapestries

where troubadors tell tales of victories;

weave the stuff that dreams are made of

with the words that flood your mind

press them between the pages of a book

that closes only at the edge of time.

I am a hill of poetry.

I stand here by the grace of nature.

One day the earth will open up and swallow me

into the canyons of desire.


La couronne effeuillée

July 17, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Marceline DESBORDES-VALMORE (1786-1859)

J'irai, j'irai porter ma couronne effeuillée
Au jardin de mon père où revit toute fleur ;
J'y répandrai longtemps mon âme agenouillée :
Mon père a des secrets pour vaincre la douleur.

J'irai, j'irai lui dire au moins avec mes larmes :
" Regardez, j'ai souffert... " Il me regardera,
Et sous mes jours changés, sous mes pâleurs sans charmes,
Parce qu'il est mon père, il me reconnaîtra.

Il dira: " C'est donc vous, chère âme désolée ;
La terre manque-t-elle à vos pas égarés ?
Chère âme, je suis Dieu : ne soyez plus troublée ;
Voici votre maison, voici mon coeur, entrez ! "

Ô clémence! Ô douceur! Ô saint refuge ! Ô Père !
Votre enfant qui pleurait, vous l'avez entendu !
Je vous obtiens déjà, puisque je vous espère
Et que vous possédez tout ce que j'ai perdu.

Vous ne rejetez pas la fleur qui n'est plus belle ;
Ce crime de la terre au ciel est pardonné.
Vous ne maudirez pas votre enfant infidèle,
Non d'avoir rien vendu, mais d'avoir tout donné.


Bright Star

July 15, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

John Keats (1795 - 1821)

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art--

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night

And watching, with eternal lids apart,

Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,

The moving waters at their priestlike task

Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,

Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--

No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,

Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever--or else swoon to death.

All rights are reserved on this video recording copyright Jim Clark 2011


The Lady Marionette

July 14, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Joe Sharp

The Lady Marionette

Jojo feels an urging to do something
An itchy twitching in the coiling of a string
A youthful longing to be tapping tippy toes
To the lively music of the piping piccolos

In his dreams he dances to the minuet
With Annabelle the lovely Lady Marionette
Jojo fears his frame of brightly painted lumber
Is deemed not to be awakened from its slumber

Within a cardboard cell he sheds a little a tear
The unhappy prisoner of a lazy puppeteer
Lonesome awaiting the summertime vacation
With circus clowns and joyous celebration

Hoping and longing to dance the minuet
With Annabelle the lovely Lady Marionette
But alas and behold this heap of tinder wood
Is not quite assembled precisely as it should

Is he to be a captive for another lonely year?
This unhappy prisoner of a lazy puppeteer
Suddenly awakened from a year long sleeping
Into the darkness the puppeteer is peeping

Ten skinny fingers are clutching at his strings
Two little puppets are in the air on swings
He holds her hand gently on a fairground carousel
The lovely Lady Marionette, Jojo’s Annabelle

The sun is slowly setting as they dance the minuet
Jojo kisses Annabelle she twirls a pirouette
The carousel is stopping the music slowing down
Lantern lights are dimming in the houses of the town

The puppeteer is yawning as he gathers up his trade
Packing up his puppets for the puppeteers parade
He has trouble disentangling the two he near forgot
The lovely Lady Marionette and Jojo tied the knot.




July 09, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Ceci ne sera pas la dernière larme
Jaillissant brûlante de ce cœur
Qui dans une nouvelle indicible torture
S’apaise en accroissant sa douleur.

O fais moi donc partout éternellement
Eprouver l’amour,
Même si la douleur dans mes nerfs et mes veines
Sans fin doit faire rage.

Puissé-je un jour enfin, ô Eternel,
Etre rempli de toi !
Ah ! ce long, ce profond tourment,
Comme il dure sur cette terre !

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Source: Adéquations


Mary Queen of Scots: A series of poems

July 08, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Mary Queen of Scots (1542-1587)

(In a nutshell)

Joe Sharp

Le Dauphin, François and Mary Queen of Scots.

The Prophecy

“It cam’ wi’ ane lass, an’ it’ll pass wi’ ane lass”

These were the prophetic words o’ her faither King James
On hearin’ the news o’ the birth at the Palace
He laid doon an’ deid, haundin’ Mary o’er the reigns

At nine months o’ age, oor Mary is Queen
Securely strapped in tae her wee baby seat
Wi’ rings on her fingers, a sight tae be seen
Suckin’ awa’ merrily on her Royal dummy teat

There were battles a’ ragin’ a’ roon’ aboot
In Kelso, an’ Jedburgh, King Henry did loot
When the wee Queen was four, there was an enquiry
An’ for safety took Mary tae Inchmahome Priory

Wi’ lots o’ disorder, at Dunbar on the border
The English were gein’ us a whole lot o’ hassle
King Henri o’ France, then geid oot an order
“We’ll be there, send Mary doon tae Dumbarton Castle”

The Rough Wooing

Henry V111, ye know, him wi’ a’ the wummin
He didnae seem tae me tae have bother wi’ his plumbin’
He had Mary betrothed tae his wee son, Prince Eddie
The betrothal was annulled, because the wee Queen wasnae ready

The English King was fumin’, up tae high doh an’ diddle
He louped up an’ doon, like a hare upon a griddle
Up doon, turn aroon’, his face against the wa’
Henry, he was ragin’, an’ so he went tae war

The cavalrymen, astride their magnificent hoarses
Set oot to seek the sturdy Scottish forces
Their numbers were few, in the early mornin’ dew
Victory was theirs, at the battle o’ Pinkie Cleugh

There was, o’ course, that thankfu’ savin’ grace
The union o’ the crowns, didnae then take place
Mary had led the King a merry dance
Sailin’ awa’, on a clipper ship tae France

Marie, la petite fille

She was such a bonnie lassie wi’ a twinkle in her een
When Mary sailed awa’ wi’ the Fleet o’ the French Marine
Frae Dumbarton Rock, in her prettiest frock, she had feenished potty trainin’
She was only wee, she’d had her tea, it was dull an’ dreich an’ it was rainin’

There was naewhere else tae go, for Mary an’ her freen’s
She didnae even know that they had taken her tae France
‘Till she was in her teens, eatin’ up a’ yon French runner beans
An’ learnin’ frae the ither lassies, how tae dae the can-can dance

She grew up tae be beautiful, fu’ o’ grace an’ inteligence
Merriein’ the Dauphin, her Prince, he was elegant
He sat on the throne as Francois the second
Daein’ everythin’ for Mary, whenever she beckoned

Their merriege lasted for only a year
Wi’ Mary cryin’ mony a tear
For Francis her lover, her Prince an’ her Dauphin
Had lain doon an’ deid in a wee fit o’ coughin’

Mary wasnae happy tae be leavin’ France
Wonderin’ what future would be waitin’ her at hame
An’ so she decided tae lose hersel’ in dance
Tae forget a’ her worries, an’ a’ her claims tae fame
She would merry a wee Lord wi’ a mansion hoose in Ayr
As long as he had the room, for a big dance flerr

Mary departing from France

The Dancing Queen

It was Shuggie the smuggler brought Mary hame frae France
Where she’d learned how tae talk an’ tae act like a lady
She had merried her Prince an’ he’d taught her tae dance
Just like Ginger Rogers in “Sweet Rosie O’Grady”

When up on the flerr she could dae the Fandango
An’ the Tally, David Rizzio, had taught her how tae Tango
She picked up her twirls, an’ the yin, twa, chasse
Frae a big French dancer, called Monsieur L’ Apache

She’d brought a’ her court wi’ her aboard the clipper
There was Mary her manicurist, wi’ her hair sae red
An’ Mary her hairdresser, she was called the snipper
An’ Mary o’ her chamber, would tuck her intae bed
An’ Mary in the kitchen would wash up a’ the mugs
An’ Shuggie o’ course, tae walk a’ Mary’s dugs

‘Twas a gloomy gloomy day, when they sailed intae Leith
A total eclipse o’ the sun, no’ wi’ the moon tae the Earth
But the usual big black clouds, stretchin’ a’ the way tae Perth
So the weather’d make ye sick, right uptae yer wisdom teeth

Pierre de Chatelard

The Potty Poet

Pierre de Chatelard, a young French poet
Was headin’ for trouble, but he wasnae tae know it
He’d been found by Mary’s chambermaid, all sweaty an’ hot
In Mary’s chamber, ‘neath her bed, next tae Mary’s chamber pot

He was banished frae her court, but he didnae take nae heed
An’ he followed as she went tae Rossend Castle
Fu’ o’ passion an’ fu’ o’ port, an’ intent tae plant his seed
The pickled poet was hopin’ Mary widnae gie him hassle

It was well efter hauf past nine, an’ Mary’d had a gless o’ wine
An’ the ither Mary thingumyjig, was helpin’ wi’ her disrobin’
In barged Pierre, an’ his airms roon’ Mary’s middle did entwine
‘It’s the poet, hurry.’ It took the Earl o’ Moray, tae stop the poet’s probin’

They dragged the drunken poet away
Tae a dungeon on St Andrews Bay
Where his famous last words still cause a row
They think it’s all over, it is now

Darn ye Darnley

He was a tall, peely-wally link o’ a man, wi’ a mind as mean as a weasel’s
He came tae Mary in Edinburgh, an’ she helped him get o’er the measles
A right big nancy, but he took her fancy, so she made him Earl o’ Ross
He was a fairy, she agreed tae merry, but said it didnae mean he was boss

Mary set oot tae find a Priest, tae ask for a Papal dispensation
Darnley an’ her were blood related, but they both kicked wi’ the same foot
She chapped on the door o’ the chapel hoose, but the Priest was on vacation
It was like if ye were lookin’ for a Glasgow polis, ye never see yin aboot

They got merried, wi’ plenty o’ food, there in the Palace o’ Hollyrood
On honeymoon, a’ dressed in plaid, they rode oot on the Chaseaboot Raid
Moray an’ his rebels, ran o’er the border tae safety, as fast as they could
That night in Dunbar, Bothwell was paid, tae join up, in Mary’s Parade

Mary an’ Darnley were growin’ apart
An’ Mary fair fancied the man frae Dunbar
He had hair on his airms, an’ chest for a start
Wi’ him by her side, they were sure tae go far

David Rizzio

Mary was dancin’, happy in the supper room
Wi’ a’ o’ her ladies, the four Marys, in attendance
David was pluckin’, at his mandolin tae tune
Getting ready for a two-by-two-by-two step dance

Mary said, ‘David, David, can ye play the minuet?’
So he bent doon tae the lute, so that he’d be nearer
‘David, David, have ye no’ got that thing ready yet?’
He said, ‘I havenae got the music so I’m playin’ it by ear’

Poor David Rizzio, wi’ his ear so sorely occupied
He didnae hear the rumpus on the stair
The thugs rushed in an’ Mary’s favourite music died
Wi’ Darnley’s dagger in his back, an’ him lyin’ on the flerr

O’ a’ ye Scottish noblemen, hing doon yer heids in shame
For takin’ Mary’s melodies away
An’ the wee Italian troubadour, so far away frae hame
Will haunt ye a’, until ye’re auld an’ grey

James V1.

Darnley gave the nation a shock, a bump appearin’ behind Mary’s frock
Ye cannae judge a book by it’s cover, he must have been a pretty guid lover
Him braggin’ he was hard as a rock, ye took it that he was just guid wi’ the talk
Don Juan, Valentino, move over, Lord Henry Darnley’s rollin’ in the clover

Mary lies in Edinburgh in considerable pain, screaming
‘I’m never gonnae let this bloody thing happen again’
She sends for her midwife, Margaret Aestane, screaming
‘Will ye bloody hurry up an’ deliver this bloody wean’

Two months later, an’ still wi’ battles goin’ on
Mary goes tae Traquair Hoose, tae try tae convalesce
Eatin’ raw eggs an’ marmalade, on a tasty soda scone
Returnin’ hame tae find she takes a size fourteen in dress

Wee James is safe in Stirlin’, preparin’ tae be baptized
Darnley’s back in Glasgow, havin’ just been ostracized
Bothwell’s in his coontin’ hoose, coontin’ oot his money
Mary’s in the parlour, eatin’ breid an’ honey

Mary, aged thirteen, at French Court

The Arden Oak

‘Och! Mary, Mary, what is it noo?
Ye’re due in Dunbar on the morrow at two.’
‘Och! Darnley, Darnley, ye havenae a clue
Can ye no’ see my hoarse has a stane in it’s shoe?’

They had ridden a’ day, frae yon Ballantrae
Where Shuggie the smuggler an’ his donkey abide
Ye’ll find them there, durin’ Glasgow Fair
Givin’ a’ the Gleswegian weans a donkey ride

‘Noo listen Darnley, when we get tae Stra’ven Castle
I dinnae want ye givin’ me ony mair o’ yer hassle
I want a room wi’ a view, an’ an en suite loo, right?
I’m no’ gonnae sleep rough, like I had tae dae last night’

‘Under yon big oak tree, at Arden
An’ wi’ a’ yon big burly Busby men
An’ wi’ a’ yon big acorns stickin’ in my ribs
An’ wi’ yon big Clydesdale lickin’ at my…’

‘Och! Mary, Mary, will ye no’ give me peace
An’ anyway, that wasnae the hoarse’

Lies, Spies, an’ pies in the Skies.

‘Och! Mary, Mary, Mary my Queen
What were ye daein’ in the common green
Wi’ yon big laddie wi’ the hair sae red
An’ me here waitin’ ye tae come back tae bed?’

‘Och! Darnley, Darnley, ye’ve always got a moan
I wish that ye’d leave a poor body alone
The laddie, he was just helpin’ me choose
A couple o’ mince pies, tae bring back tae youse’

‘Och! Mary, Mary, nae mair o’ yer lies
Aboot Ginger an’ you an’ a couple o’ pies
Fair weel I ken yon Ginger McAskill
He’s naethin’ but a dirty big rascal’

Mary then decided that she’d had aboot enough
Although she agreed that she liked a bit o’ rough
She arranged wi’ big Ginger an’ anither big tough
Tae waylay Darnley on his way tae Edinburgh

In Kirk o’ Field hoose, efter dinner an’ stuff
A large jug o’ ale an’ a wee pinch o’ snuff
A barrel o’ gunpooder went up wi’ a puff
Goodbye Darnley, tough, tough, tough

The Turncoat

Preachin’ frae the pulpit, wi’ his big grey beard
Hell fire an’ damnation, had congregations scared
Runnin’ tae their hooses, tae burn the graven images
Drappin’ tae their knees, an’ offerin’ up their homages

A’ the knees were knockin’, when John Knox started talkin’
The pee was dribblin’ doon a’ body’s leg
When he screamed oot ‘Jezebel‘, some wimmin ran like hell
An’ Jock McGee’s jaiket was on a shaky peg

Then he started oot on Mary
For behavin’ quite contrary
He said, ‘Ye’re a whore, an idolatress’, right tae her face.
‘Ye’re a bloody abhorration on the whole human race’

Mary’s reply was swift an’ somewhat comical
Her two index fingers pointin’ tae places anatomical
She chanted, ‘Milk, lemonade an’ chocolate
Milk, lemonade an’ chocolate’

Bothwell the Borderer

Mary met him in Dunbar at a dance
An’ he showed her his sturdy big Castle
She was a’ taken on wi’ his knowledge o’ France
So she didnae give him much hassle
Wi’ his persuasive technique, an’ his manly physique
He wormed his way intae her favour
His dancin’ was fine if he stayed aff the wine
But he just couldnae stop this behaviour
He was a bandit, a robber, a right bob-a-jobber
An’ he danced wi’ an axe in his belt
She merried the chancer, ‘cause he was a guid dancer
Or was it the shaft o’ the chopper she’d felt?
Mary had only yin question tae raise
As soon as their heids hit the pillow
‘Why dae ye dance wi’ an axe roon’ yer waist?’
He said, ‘It’s handy for strippin’ the willow’
His comeuppance came at Carberry Hill
When he showed her his dashin’ white sergeant
Beatin’ a retreat, tae a lively quadrille
Wi’ a yellow leather streak, on his red leather garment

Mary’s bedroom

The Abdication

Mary’s forced tae abdicate in favour o’ her son just yin year old
In a dungeon on Loch Leven where it was damp an’ it was cold
Wi’ the help o’ yon young Douglas she escaped to fight again
At Langside just outside Glasgow she amassed six thousan’ men

The battle was a gory one, an’ the bloody Earl o’ Moray won
Chasin’ Mary’s men right doon to Solway Bay
No’ afraid o’ anyone an’ against the advice o’ everyone
She who turns an’ runs away lives to fight another day

Dressed discretely as a wee fishwife
Sailin’ o’er the bay to a bright new life
Wrapped up snuggly in a tartan shawl
Spendin’ the night at Workington Hall

Mary was hopin’ that her big cousin Lizzy
Would help her get o’er this bit o’ a tizzy
Instead skinny Lizzy rang a loud death knell
An’ condemned oor Mary to nineteen years o’ hell

A tisket, a tasket
Letters in a casket.

Lizzy was reluctant tae have Mary in her court
Unless she was cleared, o’ the ‘Darnley’ blunder
She imprisoned oor Queen, in the creepy Carlisle Fort
Sayin’ ‘I’m no gonnae have her here, stealin’ my bloody thunder’

They had never ever met, exchanging letters by the dozens
Both respected yin another, an’ their status o’ regality
Never face tae face, they were hardly kissin’ cousins
An’ Mary’s health was failin’, due tae lack o’ hospitality

On the move again, doon tae Tutbury Castle prison
In tae the haun’s o’ her jailers, the Earl o’ Shrewsbury an’ his wife
Further intae England, ‘cause rebellion had arisen
An’ Lizzy’s paranoia made her fearful for her life

Then Walsin’ham an’ Paulet, a couple o’ schemin’ plotters
Wi’ their spyin’ an’ their lyin’, like a couple o’ stinkin’ rotters
Concoctin’ the fraudulent, ‘Letters in a casket case’
Nearly turnin’ oor Mary, intae a bloody basket case

The supper room

The Babington Plot

An’ so it continued wi’ the Babin’ton plottin’
Wi’ yin bad apple turnin’ the whole lot rottin’
A big burly brewer, wi’ a beer barrel belly
Made a special bung, an’ stuck it in wi’ jelly

Mary was now able tae send her letters in the plug hole
Hopin’ none o’ Lizzy’s men, were thirsty for yin or twa swallows
An incriminatin’ letter, reached Walsin’ham’s lughole
He took his quill, an’ drew an image, an image o’ the gallows

Mary Queen o’ Scots is taken awa’ tae Tixall
Preparin’ for her trial, an’ what fate was tae befall

“Oh my Lord and my God, I have trusted in Thee
Oh my dear Jesus, now liberate me
In shackle and chain, in torture and pain, I long for Thee
In weakness and sighing, in kneeling and crying
I adore and implore Thee, to liberate me”

The Parting

After nineteen long years o’ trials an’ degradation
Sae fu’ o’ spyin’ an’ lyin’, an’ negotiations tae
Mary, Queen o’ Scots, the pride o’ a’ the nation
Is sentenced tae death, in the hall o’ Fotheringhay

There are some ither names tae be written down in shame
The bloody Earl o’ Moray, an’ others share the blame
Walsin’ham, Paulet, Phelippes an’ Paget. Jist a few o’ the names
I hope they said their prayers, afore they burned up in the flames

Yin question remains Liz, how did ye stay a virgin
How did ye ever manage tae avoid the great temptation?
It cannae be the case that ye never had the urgin’
Wi’ sic a parcel o’ rogues in yer nation

* * * *

Then came the partin’, the deed they’d a’ been dreadin’
Between the hoors o’ nine an’ ten, came oor Mary’s awful beheadin’

* * *

“In my End is my Beginning”

* * *

Alas! The Prophecy had come true
“It had begun wi’ ane lass, an’ it had passed wi’ ane lass”

Mary Queen o’ Scots.

The End.


Vengeance Enfantine

July 04, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Mon clown fait de chiffons
je l’embrasse très fort
je nettoie son visage sale de mes larmes
et pose un gros baiser
sur ses lèvres de velours rose
puis j’écarquilles ses bras et me les mets
autour du cou
je le force à tenir debout
sur ses jambes bourrées de coton,
mais, comme un vrai dingue,
il tangue
son cou mince
ne supportant même pas sa tête
renversée sitôt sur sa poitrine ;
j’avais envie qu’il me porte
mais le voici qui s’écroule à mes pieds.
Fâchée net
je lui arrache les cheveux un par un
lui détache les bras
lui extirpe les jambes
les tripes et tous les boyaux
n’ayant aucun répit, mais aucun,
avant de ne le mettre en pièces.
Après, mes mains sur les hanches,
je contemple mon clown vaincu :
« Gare à toi, si tu ne m’aimes plus ! »

(Le Goût de l’instinct, édition Toena, Tirana, 1998)

Rita Petro

(traduit par Ardian Marashi)


Kllounin prej lecke
E përqafoj fort
Ia laj faqet e pista me lot
E puth në buzët prej kadifeje të kuqe,
Ia hap krahët e i vë rreth qafës sime,
E detyroj të qëndroj mbi këmbët
Mbushur lecka e pambuk,
Po ai si një i dehur
Lëkundet andej-këtej,
Prej qafës së hollë
Koka i bie në gjoks,
Në vend të më mbajë,
Më lëshohet në këmbë.
Unë fëmija i zemëruar
Ia shkul fijet e flokëve një nga një,
Ia tërheq krahët anash me forcë,
Prej trupit këmbët ia gris,
Nga barku i nxjerr gjithçka ka brenda,
S’ngopem e s’ngopem së bëri çika
Viktimën - plaçkë...
Kur lodhem,
E kundroj me duart në mes, fitimtar.
“Guxo, mos më duaj prap !”

Avec l’aimable autorisation d’Ardian Marashi et Rita Petro

(Shija e instinktit, botimet Toena, Tiranë, 1998)