Poems

RIFAT ISMAILI - ITALY

The poet, prose writer and essayist Rifat Ismaili was born on March 24, 1968 in Durres. After finishing high school, he did the mandatory military service for two years in Berat. From 1991 until today he lives in Italy, currently in Savona. Passionate about art and literature, he started writing and painting since school. Since 1986, he started publishing in the newspapers and magazines of the time and continues today. At the same time, in addition to working as an author, he was and still is engaged in translations. It was also published in: Italian, English, Russian, Uzbek, Arabian, etc., in some of the literary bodies of those countries. His inclusion in dozens of different publications as an editor or reviewer should be highlighted.
Rifat Ismaili is the author of 24 books, and 3 books as a translator.



ONCE...


Sometimes I feel like I'm living

On Robinson's Island,

Going back to the past

Only when i need her...


The breasts of the waves wake up my wife,

Leaves of trees like books I read,

And I'm not alone.


Sometimes the shadow of Medusa

It turns me into a memory cave

Where I keep the bones of poets...


Old man odyssey always leads me

In thousands of journeys,

That I would like to do

How did i ever...


Sometimes the shadow of Macbeth

Wash my feet

With the blood of the innocent,

Wipes me with the towel of oblivion.


Sometimes...

Inside everyone I am, sometimes..



TRACE AND NOISE


Traces that appear to me in my sleep

Endless trail...

In the white desert of poetry,

Where tears like palm trees have sprouted,

And feelings like oases extinguish human pains,

Every pawn lies within them,

Longing and covered sky...

Oblivion knows how eternal travelers can.

Each track has a name.


Tracks and noises...

Delayed travelers coming and going on trains,

They carry poets' dreams in their suitcases,

But inside they have only a pile of leaves...

Noise, a lot of noise and fuss...

Self-exalted people, with the scepter of leaders,

In the funeral procession of Poetry,

Throw a shovelful of dirt into the grand grave,

Waiting for the night again to exhume the Muse,

With the holy relics of the proud roads...

And they consider themselves saints.


Tracks and noises...

Traces, which are lost and extinguished every day...

Depression noises,

With the steel thread of the last hope,

Stifle and hang the rays of the poetry of life!


Track and noise, hyenas!...




ETYD



Sounds and smells...

The birds invite the golden morning,

With screams of pleasure and orgies...

In the field of life someone sows seed,

Other stupid spikes...


Prepared by Angela Kosta Executive Director by the magazine in paper MIRIADE, Academic writer, poet, essayist, literary critic, editor, translator, journalist