GIỚI THIỆU TÁC GIẢ MỚI AGRON SHELE

Là tác giả của các tác phẩm văn, thơ sau: “Những bước chân của Clara” (Tiểu thuyết), “Bên kia bức màn xám” (Tiểu thuyết), “Hình ảnh sai lầm” (tiểu thuyết), “Con đường thơ ngây” (thơ), Những viên đá trắng (thơ) RIME SPARSE-Il suono di due voci poetiche del Medit erraneo (Poesie di Agron Shele e Claudia Piccinno), La mia Musa (“Libri di-versi in diversi libri” – Ý, 2020); Murmure d’un autre monde (thơ), Klisania - Nữ hoàng của hồ (Truyện ngắn) và “Ese-I và Ese-II)”. Agron Shele cũng là điều phối viên của các Tuyển tập quốc tế: “Open Lane-1”, “Pegasiada, Open Lane-2, tạp chí ATUNIS (Nr 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6)” và Atunis Galaxy Anthology các năm 2018, 2019, 2020, 2021, 2022, 2023. Agron Shele đã đoạt một số giải thưởng văn học quốc tế. Ông là thành viên của Hiệp hội Nhà văn Albanian, thành viên của Hiệp hội Nhà văn Thế giới, tại Ohio, Hoa Kỳ, thành viên của các tổ chức thơ quốc tế như Poetas del Mundo, WPS, Unione world Poetry và là Chủ tịch của Trang Thiên hà Thơ ca Quốc tế “Atunis poetry”. Các tác phẩm của Ông được đăng trên nhiều báo, tạp chí trong nước và quốc tế, cũng như xuất bản trong nhiều tuyển tập trên toàn cầu như: Almanac 2008, 2017; Niên Giám Thơ Thế Giới 2009, 2013, 2015, The Second Genesis-2013, Kibatek 2015-Italy, Metafora (Ba Lan), Keleno-Hy Lạp, v.v. Dịch bởi Peter Tase và Merita Paparisto.

Dưới đây là 10 bài thơ của Agron Shele bằng tiếng Anh. Bạn đọc có thể tự dịch ra tiếng Việt hoặc nhờ phần mềm dịch thuật (Google, Chat GPT,…) để gặt hái được những giá trị đặc sắc về thơ của ông.

INTRODUCTION A NEW MEMBER:

Agron Shele (Albania – Belgium)

https://atunispoetry.com/

Agron Shele was born in October 7th, 1972, in the Village of Leskaj, city of Permet, Albania. Is the author of the following literary works: “The Steps of Clara” (Novel), “Beyond a grey curtain” (Novel), “Wrong Image” (novel), “Innocent Passage” (poetry), White stones (poetry) RIME SPARSE-Il suono di due voci poetiche del Mediterraneo (Poesie di Agron Shele e Claudia Piccinno), La mia Musa (“Libri di-versi in diversi libri” – Italy, 2020); Murmure d’un autre monde (poetry), Klisania, Queen of the lake (Short story) and “Ese-I and Ese-II)”. Agron Shele is also the coordinator of International Anthologies: “Open Lane-1”, “Pegasiada, Open Lane-2, ATUNIS magazine (Nr 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6)” and Atunis Galaxy Anthology 2018, 2019, 2020, 2021, 2022, 2023. He is the winner of some international literary prizes. Is a member of the Albanian Association of Writers, member of the World Writers Association, in Ohio, United States, Poetas del Mundo, WPS, Unione world Poetry and the President of the International Poetical Galaxy “Atunis”. He is published in many newspapers, national and international magazines, as well as published in many global anthologies: Almanac 2008, 2017; World Poetry Yearbook 2009, 2013, 2015, The Second Genesis-2013, Kibatek 2015-Italy, Metafora (Poland), Keleno-Greece, etc. Currently resides in Belgium and continues to dedicate his time and efforts in publishing literary works with universal values.

Translated by Peter Tase and Merita Paparisto.

 

Here are 10 poems created by Agron Shele in English. Readers can translate into Vietnamese themselves or use translation software (Google, Chat GPT, ...) to collect the unique values ​​of his poems.

 

 

1. This time...

 

This time,

When you hear the rain that falls over the bare trees from a bronze sky

And the rows of raven trees all yellow

You ask yourself

Why only a tree stands tall?

In an empty park, lonely rotting day by day

Why do you care?

Maybe because that reminds you the time that has passed

And you feel more older than ever

Like a lonely bird abandoned when the winter comes

Surviving is the only chance

 

This time,

When your thoughts are lost

And your face shows nothing more than sadness

In pale colours remained tattoo over your filthy skin

That is when you feel the touch of the last season

That is what reminds you of the long starry nights

All of this turns your spirit blue

 

....when the time passes

You can only see a rainbow that stares over an old church

Acrylic glass

You can only hear the whispers of monks as they go

But you can't hear the bell

What does that mean?

You feel like an old abused statue with crossed arms

You wait for your sins to be forgiven

If only it was that easy

But no, your demons consume your soul every day

Your disgusting devious eyes only stare at one thing

The only

The innocent saint Magdalene.

 

 

2. I know...!

 

I know

One day, you will understand

Feathers stay as proof of a flying bird

Lost far away from the horizon

No turning back

No shelter

Very angry

Far away

Anxiety of an escaped shadow

 

I know

That this emigration has nothing in common with rainy days

Neither the blooming flowers

It is an unusual escape towards time , when the air smells the pain of earth.

Death of innocent leaves under the meaning of life until madness

 

I know

that the darkness brings lonely nights

No light, that gives you hope

No dreams, that give you freedom

No tomorrow

But only a dawn related to the shadows of life in chaos.

It feels like the poison of broken hopes

 

I know

that scream will destroy the walls of broken memories

And what is dead will return to life

No more envy trapped in a spider web

And the voracious crowds and Kings without crowns.

 

 

3. The Silent journey

 

Sailing on a boat, through a stormy sea

we distinguish the gaze following us from the shore

frightened of the fate that pushes us toward the wild waves,

swollen with blood

down to the perturbed centuries

to the strange roots holding us in stasis

rotating around the satellite that extinguishes in the air

to the moment of abyss that separate life from death

of the lost illusion.

 

Again we wonder, trying to understand

the attempt in half dreams

on the wrinkled waves of tomorrow

under the mane of a horse that runs in a gust of wind,

through the nostrils of air

It is halted by the tether that pulls it

the footprints of the half of gallop are left

on the bank where the seafoam sleeps

and the Circes eyes are dissolute

 

Run, liberated from this rising like a mirage

breath and shape of this hectic darkness

like an everlasting song of this echo that attracts

our sorrow

the finish line

walking with youthful steps

and the grey aging through snowfall.

 

 

 

4. Prayer...!

 

Please,

for what the gods cannot restore

on a threshold of dusty ports

that just waits and raises the empire of pain

upon the feeble souls that are instantly extinguished,

while the suffering being

obeys the will in silence

and follows that journey that centuries have passed.

 

Again please,

not that anything will change,

to relieve pain

I believe that after that north fringe on the white birches I will see

another gilding

of a moment of silence

for the recovery of the soul

in another genesis

who walks with the steps and the voice screams.

 

I pray

but ion chaos no longer has fluidity

nor the last glow of the phosphorescent color

and so on

in the agony of words that remain in memory

I do not want to understand,

but neither to accept

that you came as * The sun that warms my childhood

and you are extinguished like a candle, whose light I can never reach.

prayer...!

 

 

5. White Light

 

A white light,

Wakened in the waters of my soul,

Over the wings of a flying bird

Just as once before...

A mirror of a reborn life in turmoil

Just as today...

Kidnapped from warm verses in rebellion.

 

White hope,

A voice of life colors without borders

An open canvas of colors brighten

Beautiful

Just as dreams of nights of no return

Thunderstorm,

Of a burning star, steaming hot.

 

White word,

Raised in the high benches of thoughts

Carved in ancient mythology of trust

Poured,

In fiery horizons of the west.

 

White life,

a broken mirror of crossed fates

a deep sea of kidnapped sorrows

just as snow...

Dissolved in the first rays of craziness

Just as a leaf...

Lost in a freezing autumn universe.

 

 

6. Rain in Montparnasse

(Charles Baudelaire)

 

Today was raining in my town

Yesterday was the same symphony

With trickles of mist in bitter traces

In that time,

That was bending a sickening muse

Over evil flowers

Rooted under darkness

And shadowed in grey,

In a soul

Flowering the pain of light

Remaining

A white boat ravaged by seas!

 

Today horizons descended drapes of clouds

On the brightest stands of the sky

Behind the scenes of stars,

That embodied concern

And a faded angel

Driven magically

Through the warmth of words

And extended conviction

A broken blood

Biting of evils

Thirsty kisses

Escaped demons

Towards deepest mysteries

 

The wind held her breadth today

For the concert played in Montparnasse

Without violins

Except vibrations of air,

As inarticulate,

From a choir of birds that keep the same nest

With their broken wings

On that statue

Those orchids descended on earth!

 

 

7. Passage

 

I need to see beyond the frames

And twist the contrast to make one more color

for deciphering all the views

that in a second change so abruptly

to make that colour a sea, a typhoon,

but also the peace that sleeps on the white waves

peace that rests beside an island

which, for me, Ithaca always remains

  

Time sleeps on the blooming lilies

whorls brightened in spring

collecting the first beams of dawn

and hiding their sight beyond the twilight

putting together the galaxy of stars.

that sparks on the cherry garden of love

to feel the distant whisper of the body

wrapped in a scarf of longing

 

and so the day’s vail is unveiled

running toward the purity of life

removing a fraction that reflects the light

and turning it to a charm that reveals the sun

weaved like this, in Gods fire

together with the lyre of the goddess of muses

at the footsteps left on the desire of words

or the thirsty longing for the traces of lips.

 

 

 

8. A woman

 

Do not expect her to walk

in the cold streets with her scarf over one shoulder

Or tap the heels on the silent memories

nor mirroring her image in the shops window

because her effulgence

is stronger then the sun

that warms the ice transforming it in to a candle,

touching the marrow of the earth

breaking the myths of winter

that die at the irises and yet,

are resurrected  

to embrace the light.

 

An image that appears at the shine of stars

and with her the wind extends the hair

to a forest where the deers are sleeping

the tracks of their hooves are printed on the snow

like a magic hidden in lightning

slaves of fate and troubled dance

towards that image

that god himself created

holiness

in the kingdom of every living breath.

 

Do not expect her to be weakened

because pain walks with her blood

and the blood with the feeling of eternity

like a deity

of the force that lifts gods to their feet,

the angels, everyday,

understanding the silence

of the turn of centuries

because the life is more than one attempt

that walks through the gates of the rainbow

and opens the doors of life

to the smile of a woman!

 

 

9. Is not enough ...

 

It's raining here,

the sky is always bronze

and the steps knock on the empty road

in thousands of feet,

without the melody of your heels,

of that timber who use to hear

as music

and the view that gave our journey distance,

not those of 100-years loneliness of Garcia

but not even love

in the cholera time (covid)

just a forgotten charm across the wind

and a journey that began

without goodbye!

 

I'm already used to it

with the sudden losses of the season

who run to unclothe the memory

first from alienated leaves of the green

then to the yellow,

violet and the reddish of Autumn,

but without your eyes

those bright thousands of suns

and hatch a light of life

and never I got learned;

that the next day

would wake up at the doorstep of a world

shinning and whispering of a silent forest.

 

 

Is not enough the cherry garden

nor the shadows of Moon

at the mirror of trunks of the Neruda's garden,

nor confusions,

nor the Eden that changed the flow of resemblance,

but simply a closeness

an overpass to the crazy world,

where the sad look of a woman

turned into the tear of my pain.

 

 

 

10. Captivity of a weave ...!

 

What seed can be more than one soul

except a color that catches the eyes of the sky

and turns it blue

to dissolve his own pain

in the weave that collapsed and rose to the clouds

and then

with the power of hope he believed

that this world is coming tomorrow

and she

just a concept

of what once happened.

 

It is not an inner voice

nor the code that opens the Pandora box

nor the flame that goes out in a single moment

but legend

of what we have

as the morph of the vision of the lily in the lake,

that was born out of the beautiful Ophelia and forever dissolved

Beatrice’s madness.

 

How much can be confessed

the simple human world

passed through the newly built barn

from the rows of earth,

or the marbles of royal palaces

which wandered in fear of the crown

thirst intrigues

and the victims of princes who never ran.

 

Everyone sleeps one day

under the roof of extinguished stars

and only echoes arrive, as a memory

of what ever recognized the magic of the dress lost through the wind

and the imagination that turns him forever to *Me!

 

Agron Shele (Albania – Belgium)

Email: atunisgalaktika@gmail.com

Web page: https://atunispoetry.com/