Coppersmith at work

These are delightfully colorful birds. Small stocky greenish bird with yellow, crimson and black sprayed on the face. Purely arboreal they don’t come anywhere near ground and fly from tree to tree sometimes traveling long distances. Like barbet these birds are heard more than seen, they so brilliantly camouflaged. The call is metallic took that is repeated at regular intervals, as if coppersmith is at work, the reason why they are called coppersmith!. I found this bird that was busy fighting the bird upstairs “yah sure I know what you are about sure sure” kind of fight that finally led to they chasing each other across trees.

Two Albanian poets and some incredible lines…

It was providence nothing else that I chanced upon these two poets. Albania a small nascent country has surprisingly rich literary history. It was a pleasant surprise to read some of them (I have to say this again: I am so much grateful to Internet. In 1995-96 when I took up reading I had to be at the mercy of library or local book lending shop…Elloor was quite popular in kerala, don’t know whether it still exists. The way things have changed is nothing short of miracle). Albanians have every reason to be proud of this heritage coming as they are from decades of isolation and misery.

Let me start with Lasgush Poradeci [(1899-1987) the picture herein is his statue in Albania], he was one of the best and what I like about him was almost meditative observation of nature. These lines from “Pogradec”

A shimmering sunset on the endless lake.
Ghostlike, a veil is slowly spread.
Over mountain and meadow the dark of night descends,
Settling from the heavens upon the town.

Over the vast land no more sound is to be heard:
In the village the creaking of a door,
On the lake the silence of an oar.
Over the Mal i Thatë an elusive eagle soars.

Sunset always is evocative- the play of silence and darkness, I miss it in cities…I miss it so much. Even when I was studying in college after all the crap I did I made it a point to visit the beach to see the sunset once in a while. Vastness of nature begins with wonder then slowly it seeps in, then you also become part of wonder. It is same about mornings and this poem by Poradeci

Morning

Like a spirit sombre within the breast
Lies the lake encased in hills.
Mirrored in its depths,
Night expires breath by breath.

I watch how she suffers, how she dies,
Her eyes blinking,
Azure-circled pools,
Like the stars of a fading sky.

But now the light of dawn
Shimmers deep within the lake.
The daystar steals away, melting
Like a piece of sugar candy.

Behold, day has dawned,
And lightning flashes from the depths.
Like a harbinger of morn
Appears, bird-white, a pelican.

The second poet is Migjeni (1911-1938) pen name of Millosh Gjergj Nikolla, he died very young with tuberculosis but left some wonderful writings and poems (there are some short stories of his in the Net. I liked the story of a prostitute who looks for that elusive ‘normal life’ and ends up mad). With age he could have contributed immensely to Albanian literature but unfortunately fate had other plans. I hate it when beautiful people die young (I also hate it when crude people live long). Migjeni did not disappoint and I am quite glad to reproduce some of his lines here…

These lines from “Blasphemy”

The mosques and churches float through our memories,
Prayers devoid of sense or taste echo from their walls.
Never has the heart of god been touched by them,
And yet it beats on amidst the sounds of drums and bells.

Majestic mosques and churches throughout our wretched land,
Spires and minarets towering over lowly homes,
The voice of the hodja and priest in one degenerate chant,
Oh, ideal vision, a thousand years old!

These few lines from “Poem of poverty”

Poverty, brothers, is a mouthful that's hard to swallow,
A bite that sticks in your throat and leaves you in sorrow,
When you watch the pale faces and rheumy eyes
Observing you like ghosts and holding out thin hands;
Behind you they lie, stretched out
Their whole lives through, until the moment of death.
Above them in the air, as if in disdain,
Crosses and stony minarets pierce the sky,
Prophets and saints in many colours radiate splendour.
And poverty feels betrayed.

lines from prose titled “The suicide of a sparrow”

The sparrow was suffering from depression. It was born in a very barren land. Instead of grass, there were boar bristles, and instead of trees, there were the horns of prehistoric beasts. Who would not be depressed in such an environment, if one could call it nature? A sparrow does not need much to live on, but an environment devoid of nature, did not provide anything….

The sparrow, perched on a horn and in the depths of depression decided to commit suicide. It looked about in philosophical irony and took the irrevocable decision which glimmered in its despairing eyes. It chirped once, it chirped twice, it chirped three times. Then there followed a long and poignant cry, its last will, the testament of its suffering. Without spreading its wings, it jumped off the horn and plunged into a boar bristle as long and sharp as a knife, and was impaled.

A sparrow, impaled on a boar bristle. Its tail and wings fluttered, causing it to rotate around the bristle, as metal weather vanes turn on the top of our chimneys when the North Wind begins to blow. What is the logical connection here? Do I detect complaints? Indeed, my dear and far from superficial reader, are there not enough logical, moral, and dogmatic inconsistencies in the realities of this world? Why get angry and accuse me of a few logical inconsistencies which are doing harm to no one