AGRON SHELE, A MAESTRO OF DIGITAL CONTEMPORARY ALBANIAN POETRY.

BIODATA OF AGRON SHELE

https://atunispoetry.com/

(English)
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), Whiste 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) ” . Mr. Shele is also the coordinator of International Anthologies: “Open Lane- 1,” “Pegasiada , Open Lane- 2 , ATUNIS magazine ( Nr 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 )” and Atunis Galaxy Antholgy 2018, 2019, 2020, 20212022. He is 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

Yellow

Yellow, it's the colour of the page of books, resting in the library
, as long as you need to open it and the dust comes out
It is also yellow, like the colours of the auttumn
The nostalgy of touching the contours of season
The pictures of Van Gogh are also yellow
With connected hands for tomorrow, just like wheat
Yellow is the haircolour of the goldenhaired girl, rolling her sleeves to the gold of Salambo
There is a bright face
Whose green eyes are painted on the canvas
While holding in the heart the guilt of pain
And the memoirs come to mind
But they get lost with illusions
It is nothing, only a short escape
The yellow can get mixed up with red
When the fire of heart is burning, see the flames in the cup where the moon resides
diving into the body of lovely Ophelie
Yellow, like the suprising season
Like a broken mirror coming in front of your eyes
, And then all the reflections of the world
Get the lanterns lighten up
So he candles are shining so bright
So bright like the portrait of Madaleine
Like her veil made with the awakened stars
While praying for a new awakening

Calypso

When do you know there is light?
When you feel like you're touching every nuance of time,
When you guess the meaning of eternal.
You have a clear sight
and you can conquer all the darkness
It' s like in the isle,
where the angry waves keep the ships away,
The palms can bend, to the storm
and they whistle the melody of nymphs
It can be far and unreachable,
Just a deified myth,
between the border of the missing getaway
and the rigid rhymes that holds the mind of a marine
Forever, lost in the bluster of waters
And here comes the morning,
slowly,
so shiny.
Shining the hair clips of the Calypso.
She can bring on fiery sun
to the infinity of imagination of the shore,
Till it reaches the final shelter,
Protecting all the love in this world!

IS NOT ENOUGH

It’s raining here
the sky is always bronze
The steps of a thousand feet
clinking on the empty road
without the melody of your high heels
the resonance that I used to hear as music
and without the scenery that gave distance to our journey
not a distance like the one hundred years of solitude of Garcia’s
or like the love in time of cholera ( or covid )
but just a charm forgotten in the wind
a journey that begins without a goodbye.
I have already learned to adapt to sudden loss
of the season rushing to strip the memory
starting with alienating the green of leafs
and then with the yellow, purple and reddish of autumn
but I could never adapt
to the loss of the sparkle of your eyes
that shine like a thousand suns
and blooms in the flame of life.
I could never adapt to the idea
that tomorrow will rise to the threshold of a world
a glitter and whisper of a silent forest
The cherries orchard is not enough
Nor the shadow of the moon
on the mirror of the tree trunks of Neruda’s garden
nor the confusion
neither Eden that changed the flow of reflection…
Only a simple approach
a simple jump into that crazy world
where the desperate sight of a woman
became the tear of my torment.