AGRON SHELE AND THE BEAUTY OF HIS METAPHORS IN POEMS.

BIODATA OF AGRON SHELE

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, 2021, 2022. 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.

POEMS BY AGRON SHELE

MY CYPRESS

Every time that snow starts falling
I don’t know why I come to you
might be a promise;
the silent exchange of our stories

Mine are simpler
there’s no noise, no glory that you can listen to.
yours, I don’t know,
but I see the prints on your skin
and believe too many hands have touched you
they have prayed and asked for more love
met with a bowing of the head and a Namaste
that you hold deep in your soul.

Here I am again today
you know, when the snowflakes start I will be here
I see the prints of the running wind as well
not those of the wind’s reindeer, because they are fare away
but just the pain that we feel, you and me
when wildly winds rock the top of the tree
shaking off the snow to your shoulders
to shelter more birds
As for me…I am shaken by silent memory
of people that I unconditionally love

My cypress,
there is no end to the odes and songs
that come to me
along with this cold air
which can’t ever strip your green joy
as it murmurs in your branches,
as for me, I do not need more than a greeting when I come
always unspeakably understanding each other
you, still in your world of old love reposing
I, again forgotten on my bench

I need to lit a cigarette and see through the smoke,
the reappearance of what is gone
whereas I am stealing your body
and take it with me, to my very last station.

COVERSATION WITH CHARLES BAUDELAIRE

. You always came in the same way
sometimes as a ghost
stuck in the grey matter of the brain
other times as a bad flower’s blossom
even as it appears in dark colors
shows the greatness of a painting of a sea
the white sails of a ship that comes and goes away
from the bewildered and confused sight of the eyes
or the lily of the lake shining
on the body of life
body and soul sorrow endeavored
devils and angels
painted centuries ago by masters on the chapels

. I am sure that your sight is fixed at these same church
with different appearances
you were crazy about horses’ manes
at the cattle fair
whereas I, get caught amongst the traffic, at the same cross road
at the same cobblestone plaza that look like Cadmus teeth
those letters
what you murmured until the last breath
as the most glorious soul of sorrow
that never got the peace…!

Note: Today I was at the same church that Charles Buadelaire used to go and lit a remembrance candle for his soul.

Translated into English by Merita Paparisto