Ardita Jatru is an Albanian poet. She was born in 1972 in Tiranë, Albania. Her passions include photography, writing, traveling and time with family and friends. Her poems have been published in these international magazines: Knot Magazine (USA), Section 8 Magazine (USA), Dead Snake (CANADA), Madison Lake & Erotic Anthology Poetry (USA), 1947 Literary Journal (USA) and Duane’s PoeTree (USA). Her poems are also published in Poetix (Greece), Poiein (Greece), Maison de la Poesie Anthology (Belgium), Le capital des most (France), Haemus Review (Romania) and Les Folies- Erotique (France) etc etc. Ardita’s poetry chapbook “66 kilos of Solitude”, translated in English by Laureta Petoshati is published in USA by Transcendent Zero Press.
66 Kilos of Solitude – 30 Mar 2018 (Paperback)
by Ardita Jatru (Author)
66 Kilos of Solitude explores mortality through themes related to sexuality, identity, and relationships. Part of a four part series of Albanian poets brought to you by TZPress.Laureta Petoshati is an Albanian poet, prose writer and translator. She attended Faculty of Engineering in University of Tirana and received a Master Degree in Civil Engineering (Water Engineering) in 1987. In 1991 she got a license as a translator and from that time to nowadays she is committed to translations, literature and journalism. She published her poetry collection Goddess of Heaven in 1996, the historical novel Return to Ventotene in 2012, in 2016 has translated the 2/3 of the poetry volume “The Temple of Loneliness” by well-known Israeli poet Zvika Szterfeld from English into Albanian and in 2018 she translated poetry collection 66 Kilos of Solitude by Albanian poet Ardita Jatru from Albanian into English published by Transcendent Zero Press USA. As a poet also as a translator she is a winner of many contests. The Pegasian Alternative Academy announced her best translator for 2016.
By Ardita Jatru
Where is Phaon who does not appear anywhere over the sea?
Maybe the boat disobeyed to him to return,
Maybe is he kissing Aphrodite on a shore?
Oh, Phaon!
Sappho is waiting for you on the edge of the abyss at the lighthouse
and I am burning my fingertips on the harp
and my voice is fading out by the longing’s songs
for the fire that you lighted into my thirsty soul
Thou my lad, the handsome fisherman.
* * *
The proud sun rose to the top of the sky
and the sea shone like a gem
are flying around the rock some angels with wings
at the top is Sappho waiting as a pale moon
she is eyeing Lefkada, Ithaca, Cephalonia
and suddenly the sun became ember over the sea
at the foot of the rock with shouts are coming some tides
and away a peripheral black dot appears
in the middle of the line that gets bigger and bigger
and the birds take wing from the branches to the heavens
some seagulls’ screaming frightening shakes their wings
and Sappho stops her song
and by the eyes of impatience touches the dot which becomes to grow
a bunch of butterflies explode from her chest
combs her hair by her sanguine fingers
shakes the hold skirting of the white dress
nibbles the lip and gets ready for the moment
when Phaon, the fisherman appears in front of her.
she snatches the harp from the ground and starts the song:
My Phaon, the handsome fisherman
come back as soon as possible to the burning woman’ chest
we both should be kill by Eros with a arrow
and the gods of Olympus should make for us a grave.
Come back and become the closing point in the verse.
And her lip is covered with blood by impatience
and the blood is dropping from the throat onto the dress
and guesses that black dot of horizon
was Ithaca, that was appeared by the winds in the clear sky.
The boat is not seen anywhere.
Phaon where are you, Eeeeeeee, love,
On the top of the rock I am iced a season under the lighthouse
by lyrical verses I killed the waiting
and their cords were broken off upon my harp.
Phaon, where are you light,
I’m a woman drowned in craving.
The sun has incinerated me
the winds have rocked me
the night has brought me to knees
the heaven weighs on my chest as a flagstone
I am already blind,
my eyes are turned into boats of salt.
Phaon, thou fisherman,
this is the last word,
let my waiting be a wild flower on the rock
and my body let be guzzle by this wave which is vocally coming .
Your refusal let become a legend.
I’m going to Hades, eventually
to wander with sinful spirits.
Farewell, winner!
And Sappho dropped the harp on the ground
bared her feet upon the dew on grass
Set free her body from the filmy dress
and threw it quickly into the abyss.
Farewell, light!
Farewell, Fisherman!
© Translation from Albanian into English by Laureta Petoshati
Published with the permission of Ardita Jatru