Gentian Çoçoli

IWP '06

In the years since the fall of communism, the poet Gentian Çoçoli has occupied himself with the task of introducing Albanian readers to important British and American poets of the twentieth century previously unavailable under the old regime. He fills in these literary gaps with his translations of T.S. Eliot, Robert Lowell, Elisabeth Bishop, Seamus Heaney, and Jorie Graham, among others. His prolific work as a translator from English, with all of its personal and political resonances, was what initially compelled me to sit down with the poet and his poetry in the fall of 2006, during his residency at the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa, and try to return the favor.

But to access Gentian Çoçoli’s poety I needed a mediator: having no Albanian myself, I first engaged with the work in translation. Gentian’s wife, a Calvino scholar and professor of Italian, had translated a selection of his poetry into Italian, and I am greatly indebted to her for these translations, as they are the basis for my own. The intersection between the Albanian and Italian languages continues to be a space fraught with political tension and mistrust. The process of working with Gentian’s Italian texts therefore compelled us towards discussions of linguistic and political history, and an examination of how these factors affected the Albanian text in its transition to Italian. Together we worked to disentangle my English translations from their Italian roots and bring them closer to Gentian’s original Albanian text. This linguistic triangulation, from Albanian to Italian and then to English, has undoubtedly left a few indelible marks on these poems. But this seems only fair, as it was this process that made these translations possible.

—Diana Thow

A Lanicera Caprifolium for Violen	Kete Lanicera Caprifolium per Violen
Backs of bird. Slopes of stem. Solutions of cloud. Shoulders of stone. The pollinating wind the great marvel of the plants, they cradle, revive, extend a palmful of soil for one flower very small, endemic, that from now on will preserve each of your lexical misappreciations The flat of your hand has become threshold to the dark rooms brimming with orbits of the wooden chest, quilts like fields sown of cotton solitude, migrations of the dried-flower rug. Ardor, still abed, will soon give life to twilights of wood and air, seeping over the cobbled shoulders, hinting at humidity— below our bodies root and rhizome are hand in hand with darkness.	Shpina zogu. Anime kercelli. Tretesire me re. Supe guri. Pjalmimi me ere shtuar dhe admirimin per bimet, munden te kendellin, perterijne e shtrojne nje pellembe dhc per nje lule te vockel, endemike qe do kujdeset te ruaje ketej e tutje tere harresat e pakujdesite e tua leksikohore. Trina jote e dores prag i eshte dhomave te erreta perplot orbita sendukesh, jorganesh si fusha mbjelle me vetmi pambuku, me mergime qilimash lulethare. Zjarrmi ende ne shtrat te vet, shpejt do t‘u jape jete atyre mugetirash druri e ajri qe shtruar sie jane me kalldrem supesh, ftojne tinez lageshtiren – nen trupat tane themele e rizoma shkojne perdore me erresiren.
A Bird in the Leg* to Violen	Zogu i Kembes Per Violen
I.
Or, made familiar, the calf. When I went outside to give my mother a hand sneaking the bed sheets in from the frost— pregnant like rainclouds, a bulging wall— one night in November, the bird in my left leg trembled, contracted, spread panic though my body; it shuddered like a tree trunk, as if, still attached to the stalk of the tibia, it were searching, impatient, for a hollow that was no longer, is it uprooting this human tree? disregarding the body, the arms, the distant shoulder-hills,	Ose njohur ndryshe pulpa. Kur dola jashta t’i behesha nenes sime krah tek ia hiqnim eafit mu nen hunde eareafet – Renduar si re shiu a bark muri – nje nate nentori, zogu i mengjer i kembes u drodh, u tkurr, e dha i pari panikun per trup qe u tund si trung, a thua puq si qe me fyellin e kercirit te kerkonte ne vrik nje gufalle qe me s’qe, Mos po shkulet rrenje kjo peme njerezore? pa ia ditur per trupin, krahet, supet-kodra te largeta,
II.
How did Odysseus find himself, three thousand Novembers past —or surely autumns, if we follow Homer’s path— Gathering leaves from the ground, enough to cover three men between two meager, rusted trunks, his calves pressed against an olive tree, thirsting for the sleep that blew over his brows and lids, wanting to lie down, a fear of frost preventing him, he nodded off, his face against bark; his silent calf, searching, found a hole the size of a ball of snow, deep as a self—there the owl had left a dream half-dreamt, which Odysseus then finished (just when gray-eyed Athena shed the name owl): of frosted topsails, sheets on a frozen bed, turned hard toward a November bay —like my own front yard.	Si u ndodh Odiseu plot tremije nentore te shkuara, (a te pakten vjeshta pas shenjave qe le pas Homeri: Mblodhi tokes aq flete te rena sa te mblonte tre burra) nden dy trungje te jetosur, ne ndryshk, pulpe-puq ulliri, gjithe et per gjumin qe hukatte mbi qepalle e qerpike e dot s’ulej nga frik’ e brymes, ai e ndau te dremite me faqen mbi levore, pa ndier pulpa gjurmoi e gjeti te earen sa nje top bore, perthelle sa vetja – huti aty pat lene pergjys endrren qe e shtoi Odiseu: (per sa kohe u elir ne ngut nga emri hut Atene sykthjella) ca vela ne bryme si eareafe shtrati qe prej bryme kthenin ne zor aneve, kah nje gji nentori – sa avlia ime.
III.
As in another season, I entered the bedroom, the whisper of the house behind my back grew into a wind, blew at the leaves of the desk; slipping into the imagination as islands— but of paper with tendrils of ink, each equidistant from the axis, the well, the house’s watery eye: the ink of my pen froze like my fear, my calves adhered to the legs of the chair, my eyes on the closet where shadows prey… There, my dark overcoat assails me with button-claws, buttonhole eyes, mythic fur— Sleep beat the air forcefully with oak-leaf-wings, sipped more slumber from the acorn’s husk— Odysseus opens his eyes, his calves like arctic birds.	Si ne stine tjeter hyra ne dhome te gjumit, me mermerimen e shtepise prapa shpine, e u be ere, e u fryu fleteve mbi shkrimore; Ato rane ne perfytyrim si ishuj – por letre, me flore shkrimi e largesi te palujtshme kah vete boshti i shtepise a steres: boja e rapidit u bukos si frika ime tek stupa pulpat pas kembeve te karriges, me syte kah dollapi i rrobave ku plaekitnin hije. . . - Ja palltua ime e murme qe me turret kembeve, me kopsat-eataj, thilete-sy, pellush mitik – rrahu vrik ky gjume me krahe-gjeth-lisi, te gjerbe edhe me gjume, tej nder zhokela lisi – Odiseu eel syte me pulpat bore si zogj arktike.
IV.
I might have known the immediate past of the body soft as soil in a vase— her calves in my palms like pools of rain I gathered hands cupped under the front gate or like the turtledove I freed from the cage of my arms, like a cloth flung into the wind and I feel free under a clouded twilight— November, certainly.	A thua njoha te saposhkuaren e atij trupi shkrifur si dhc vazoje – pulpat e saj pellembeve te mia si pellgje pikelash shiu qe i mblidhja kupes se duarve nen Deren e Madhe, a pesha e guguftuse qe e hidhja si teshe pambuku kafazit te kraheve, qe e leshova e u elirova nje buzembremje bryme – e’tjeter vee nentori.

A Lanicera Caprifolium

for Violen

Kete Lanicera Caprifolium

per Violen

Backs of bird. Slopes of stem. Solutions of cloud.
Shoulders of stone. The pollinating wind
the great marvel of the plants, they cradle,
revive, extend a palmful of soil for one flower
very small, endemic, that from now on will preserve
each of your lexical misappreciations

The flat of your hand has become threshold to the dark rooms
brimming with orbits of the wooden chest,
quilts like fields sown of cotton solitude,
migrations of the dried-flower rug.
Ardor, still abed, will soon give life
to twilights of wood and air,
seeping over the cobbled shoulders, hinting at humidity—
below our bodies root and rhizome are hand in hand with
darkness.

Shpina zogu. Anime kercelli. Tretesire me re.
Supe guri. Pjalmimi me ere shtuar dhe
admirimin per bimet, munden te kendellin,
perterijne e shtrojne nje pellembe dhc per nje lule
te vockel, endemike qe do kujdeset te ruaje ketej e tutje
tere harresat e pakujdesite e tua leksikohore.

Trina jote e dores prag i eshte dhomave te erreta
perplot orbita sendukesh,
jorganesh si fusha mbjelle me vetmi pambuku,
me mergime qilimash lulethare.
Zjarrmi ende ne shtrat te vet, shpejt do t‘u jape jete
atyre mugetirash druri e ajri
qe shtruar sie jane me kalldrem supesh, ftojne tinez lageshtiren –
nen trupat tane themele e rizoma shkojne perdore me erresiren.

A Bird in the Leg*

to Violen

Zogu i Kembes

Per Violen

I.

Or, made familiar, the calf. When I went
outside to give my mother a hand

sneaking the bed sheets in from the frost—
pregnant like rainclouds, a bulging wall— one night in November,

the bird in my left leg trembled, contracted,
spread panic though my body; it shuddered like a tree trunk,

as if, still attached to the stalk of the tibia,
it were searching, impatient, for a hollow that was no longer,

is it uprooting this human tree?
disregarding the body, the arms, the distant shoulder-hills,

Ose njohur ndryshe pulpa. Kur dola
jashta t’i behesha nenes sime krah

tek ia hiqnim eafit mu nen hunde eareafet –
Renduar si re shiu a bark muri – nje nate nentori,

zogu i mengjer i kembes u drodh, u tkurr,
e dha i pari panikun per trup qe u tund si trung,

a thua puq si qe me fyellin e kercirit
te kerkonte ne vrik nje gufalle qe me s’qe,

Mos po shkulet rrenje kjo peme njerezore?
pa ia ditur per trupin, krahet, supet-kodra te largeta,

II.

How did Odysseus find himself, three thousand Novembers past
—or surely autumns, if we follow Homer’s path—
Gathering leaves from the ground, enough to cover three men
between two meager, rusted trunks, his calves pressed against
an olive tree, thirsting for the sleep that blew over his brows and lids,
wanting to lie down, a fear of frost preventing him, he nodded off,
his face against bark; his silent calf, searching, found
a hole the size of a ball of snow, deep as a self—there the owl
had left a dream half-dreamt, which Odysseus then finished
(just when gray-eyed Athena shed the name owl):
of frosted topsails, sheets on a frozen bed, turned hard
toward a November bay —like my own front yard.

Si u ndodh Odiseu plot tremije nentore te shkuara,
(a te pakten vjeshta pas shenjave qe le pas Homeri:
Mblodhi tokes aq flete te rena sa te mblonte tre burra)
nden dy trungje te jetosur, ne ndryshk, pulpe-puq ulliri,
gjithe et per gjumin qe hukatte mbi qepalle e qerpike
e dot s’ulej nga frik’ e brymes, ai e ndau te dremite
me faqen mbi levore, pa ndier pulpa gjurmoi e gjeti
te earen sa nje top bore, perthelle sa vetja – huti
aty pat lene pergjys endrren qe e shtoi Odiseu:
(per sa kohe u elir ne ngut nga emri hut Atene sykthjella)
ca vela ne bryme si eareafe shtrati qe prej bryme
kthenin ne zor aneve, kah nje gji nentori – sa avlia ime.

III.

As in another season, I entered the bedroom,
the whisper of the house behind my back
grew into a wind, blew at the leaves of the desk;
slipping into the imagination as islands— but of paper
with tendrils of ink, each equidistant
from the axis, the well, the house’s watery eye:
the ink of my pen froze like my fear,
my calves adhered to the legs of the chair,
my eyes on the closet where shadows prey…
There, my dark overcoat assails me
with button-claws, buttonhole eyes, mythic fur—
Sleep beat the air forcefully with oak-leaf-wings,
sipped more slumber from the acorn’s husk—
Odysseus opens his eyes, his calves like arctic birds.

Si ne stine tjeter hyra ne dhome te gjumit,
me mermerimen e shtepise prapa shpine,
e u be ere, e u fryu fleteve mbi shkrimore;
Ato rane ne perfytyrim si ishuj – por letre,
me flore shkrimi e largesi te palujtshme
kah vete boshti i shtepise a steres:
boja e rapidit u bukos si frika ime
tek stupa pulpat pas kembeve te karriges,
me syte kah dollapi i rrobave ku plaekitnin hije. . .
- Ja palltua ime e murme qe me turret kembeve,
me kopsat-eataj, thilete-sy, pellush mitik –
rrahu vrik ky gjume me krahe-gjeth-lisi,
te gjerbe edhe me gjume, tej nder zhokela lisi –
Odiseu eel syte me pulpat bore si zogj arktike.

IV.

I might have known the immediate past
of the body soft as soil in a vase—

her calves in my palms
like pools of rain I gathered

hands cupped under the front gate
or like the turtledove I freed from the cage

of my arms, like a cloth flung into the wind
and I feel free

under a clouded twilight—
November, certainly.

A thua njoha te saposhkuaren
e atij trupi shkrifur si dhc vazoje –

pulpat e saj pellembeve te mia
si pellgje pikelash shiu qe i mblidhja

kupes se duarve nen Deren e Madhe,
a pesha e guguftuse qe e hidhja

si teshe pambuku kafazit te kraheve,
qe e leshova e u elirova

nje buzembremje bryme –
e’tjeter vee nentori.

—translated by Diana Thow

Diana Thow is an MFA candidate in literary translation at the University of Iowa. She has published her work in The Columbia Review, House Organ and Words Without Borders.

A Lanicera Caprifolium

Kete Lanicera Caprifolium

A Bird in the Leg*

Zogu i Kembes

I.

II.

III.

IV.

5.2 Fall 2007