NDUE UKAJ AND THE BEAUTIFUL METAPHORS IN HIS POEMS.

BIODATA OF NDUE UKAJ

Ukaj was born in Kosova, in 1977 and is a writer, essayist, and literary critic. To date, he has published four poetry books, one short story collection, and two literary
criticism books. He won several awards, including the national award for best book of poetry published in 2010 in Kosovo. His works have been published
in
distinguished international anthologies and journals and have been translated into many languages. Ukaj is a member of the Swedish PEN.

ITHACA HURTS

"I am a foreigner in my own country," wrote Edith Södergran.
I don’t know how she felt on that day when the wind blowed and it snowed.
She was perhaps talking about Ithaca, about the endless absence.
A pain that is felt and like an arrow in the heart hurts.
She was actually talking about Ithaca's absence,
for the lack similar to when Odysseus approached the harbor
and did not know who was in her home;
who accompanied Penelope and what happened with his dog.

It blows and it snows.
A woman walks slowly,
she is afraid she may fall.
Clarity is lacking everywhere.
At the time when the eyes are seduced towards the closed gates.
Toward Ithaca-
and a woman waiting surrounded by imagination and solitude.

Through rising waves, we always have the ambition to reach the goal.
What is the goal?
An invention of no one or of supernatural powers-
A goal we will never achieve.

Edith saw a bigger tree than all the other trees.
Nowhere was the serpent, nor the beautiful Eve.
Good and evil were blended like wool in her pubis.

Fog and snow.
Beyond memory, she is afraid of the night.

There is no music anywhere, but there are a lot of crows croaking
telling their ghastly confession.

It blows and it snows.
The branches of the bare trees whisper,
Like Penelope's dress where she threw herself into Odysseus' arms.
This music is for those who want clarity
and avoid fog- rules.

I turn my face towards the new path
where I have never been.
And I say: I am not a stranger in my own country.
Then I opened the book again and found what Edith really wrote:
"I'm burning for a place that is not."

BRIDGE

It would be better if this shapeless space
to have no bridge.
You will bear your pain
and I mine.

Today
you are silent like this night without lighting.

Remember when you told me the story of the abandonment,
That story for one whole life.

Yes!
Better this space
to have a prickly rose
from whence the song of the vultures would be heard
then this bridge that unites pain.

The night is beautiful and for my desire, I look at the stars.
They look like a dense cloud painting.
I embrace most of them
like this emptiness that eats me.

You again lure me to the stillness of the feathers.
Today and forever,
I remained drowsy with the gaze on that horizon.

SCARED SKY

On this long journey, poets gaze at the ravens
that have filled the heavens with uncertainty.
We never understood that
the sounds of freedom have been struggled by numerous leaders
and storytelling of heroism
without history.

Like yesterday and today,
we walk and don’t know where is our goal.

And in the middle of this fog,
something called goal is disappeared.

Earlier here someone struggled, shouted terribly
and fled like lightning.

At the end of this walk is a vast battlefield
and a string of writings showing how to get to the destination;
a goal we will never achieve.

Oh you know: no one deserves this long journey.
Especially now when the depths of the mountain froufrou
and black raves fill the sky with uncertainty.

REPUBLIC OF DESPAIR

All those who have problems with breathing
are instructed to seek another planet
and fill the boats with the hope
and raise a toast with stars.

You know that the unconscious inside us dwells
a corner of the earth, like a troubled heart
and unconsciously trample it like a rotten leaf in rainy weather.

Beyond the lightning is easy to pass.
The sky today has no shape;
there are no dividing lines either.

In the case of concentration you can notice there
all politicians, poets, philosophers and historians
how they are worship to the reality that does not exist.

Translated from Albanian by Edita Kuçi Ukaj