Shumëfaqet t’i dua se të kam prizëm jete – Joie Bose

11156157_1003006083044210_4400790652614450028_nJOIE Bose

Mearteka Literary paraqet Joie Bose me  një cikël poetik mjaft interesant. Sikur e lexoni me poshtë biografinë e saj , kemi një poete e artiste të gjithanshme. Gjithpërfshirja e saj në shumë aktivitete dhe edukim në  Indi  dhe si piktore dhe anëtare e shumë manifestimeve në Evropë dhe më larg në Azi  Joie , në shpalosjet e saja poetike ka një stil interesant , modern dhe origjinal që në poezitë e saja do t’ i hetoni . Tri nga cikli poetik vijnë  në shqip nga Aida Dizdari, të cilën e falënderon Mearteka, kurse tjerat janë ashtu në origjinal sikur i shkruan Joie.

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Joie Bose is a poet, painter & educator who has taught in institutions such as Jadavpur University, Techno India University, Sikkim Manipal Univerity, Heritage and Surendranath College other than conducting workshops in many others. Writing poetry for over fifteen years,an alumnus of JNU she is currently the Kolkata Head of Poetry Couture, having been the Youth Co-ordinator for Srijan, Secretary of The English Academy and the Secretary of The Fine Arts Academy in St.Xaviers College, President of The Book Club, Calcutta Girls High School. She yearns to popularize the spoken word and love for writing while propagating the cause of poetry as a possible solution to combat depression that gnaws a large cross section of urban populace. Founder of ‘English On Track’, an English & Soft Skills Training Institute she is currently editing & compiling a book of short stories and writing a text book on life skills and creative writing. She is currently pursuing her PhD specializing in feminism and the Indian Diaspora.

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Lidhje të çuditëshme (Strange Liaisons)

 

 

Kunjëza të vogël pambuku, mbi qafen time me rënie ëndrrash

thithin djersën xixëllonjëse të abazhurit,

duke ndritur netët, unë e ti, luftojmë…

 

Të mprehta janë fjalët e presin si gërshërë,

mendjet, shpata therëse mbetur ende ashtu teh-holla,

një martesë që, zemrash, e patruptë e tëra.

 

Shumëfaqet t’i dua se të kam prizëm jete,

që m’i adhuron ngjyrat e kamaleontit kur drejt teje zvarritem,

kaq të ndryshëm, me botën në mes, jemi magnetë dëshirash…

 

Vëllime fjalësh m’i ngrenë kështjellat,

ti vëllimin ngre e shenon rezultate,

zëri im të depërton krahëve.

 

Botët na thërrmohen si kana të qelqta,

që pijetaret shkatërrojnë nëe caste melankolie…

…ne copërat i fshijmë, duke qeshur.

 

 

Strange Liaisons

 

Cotton ball dabs on my neck with descending dreams

Absorb the twinkling sweat of the night bulb

Illumining nights, you & I, we fight…

 

The words are sharp, they snip like scissors

The minds, slaying swords remain sharper still

Its was a bodiless marriage of the hearts…

 

I love your many facets, you’re my prism

You adore my chameleon colours as I creep to you,

Poles apart, we are magnets…

 

Volumes of words, build my castles

You put up the volume, setting scores

My voice seeps into your arms…

 

Our worlds shatter like glass decanters

Drunkards destroy in melancholy minutes

We sweep the pieces, laughingly…

 

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Tornadot (Tornado’s)

 

 

Ti s’ishe prej tornadosh

që pikturoja n’pëlhurë

për të l’shuar ferrin, për të bërë kërdinë.

 

Isha ndalur një çast

më frymë të shuar…

Do thërrmohesha papritur si grumbull me gurë…

 

Nganjëhere, faqet i kthej,

Neruda zhveshur duarsh të mia,

tingujt, zhurmimet ia ndjiej…

 

Pesëdhjetë vite kaluar

në shkreptima llambe…

Gastaret e saj shpojnë shojet…

S’mbahem me këmbë, më dhembin thembrat

por shpejt shërohen thembra e shoje,

Është shpirti që barrën kurre s’e lëshon…

 

E mblodha pëlhuren

në gazetë të vjetër,

e mbylla lart, në nënçati.

 

Flokëthinjur, ti do vije përsëri

të shpupurisje flokë sërish

po atëherë moda do jetë për tullace.

 

Mund të vijë për të marrë

prapa tablove,

por do të ishe vjetëruar nga molëza…

 

Puhitë më përkëdhelin butë

në netë drithëronjëse

goditur prej kujtimesh të njomshta…

 

Kam dëgjuar se ke ndaluar tani

se të shkruajnë ca rreshta, por as ato

s’do jenë më tornadot e tua…

 

 

Tornado’s

 

 

You weren’t one of the tornados

I painted on a canvas

To create havoc, raise hell…

 

I had paused for a moment

With baited breath

Would I collapse into rubbles…

 

At times I turn the pages

Neruda naked in my hands

I hear sounds, disturbances…

 

Fifty years passed by

In light bulb flashes

Its broken shards piercing the sole…

I can’t stand, heels they hurt

But the sole’s and heels heal

The soul carries it all on…

 

I wrapped the canvas

In an old newspaper

Stashed it in the loft…

 

You would come grey haired

To ruffle the hair again

But being bald would be in vogue then…

You could come to take

Back the painting

But it would be motheaten…

 

Breezes caress me, tenderly

On shivering nights

Damp memory stricken…

 

I hear you are still now

A few lines they write for you

They too won’t be your tornado’s…

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Ti dhe unë… (You and I…)
(1nd edition)

 

 

Shoqërinë drejtësia e shpall

Në qoftë e vërtetë apo  e gabuar

Jam mësuar të heshtë …

 

Por fryma ime thotë për të vazhduar

Sepse e di që unë jam e vërtetë

Kur qetas flas …

 

Ky nuk është shpirti im në ty e që këmbehet

Dhe shitet për një çmim

Ai është diç frymore …

 

Unë iu kam parë juve,  ju jeni më shumë se diçka

Ju jeni për mua esencë

Dhe mbani të gjitha aftësitë  dashurore …

 

Ju keni pasur grumbuj çupëzash për të dashuruar

Dhe unë e di se joshjet do të vazhdojnë

Por në çmendurinë tënde jam unike …

 

Nëse ju gjeni një tjetër  nga unë

Ndoshta unë do të bie në dashuri përsëri e nuk do të rritesha

Qoftë  të  jetë ai një fat i rëndë për mua ..

 

Unë jam fati  i  përcaktuar për ty

Dhe Ti  për mua

Dhe kjo është e gjitha që duhet të ishte …

 

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Woman of the Moon

Silent in the afternoons
In a siesta snore
Bright light blinds the eye…

A woman wrapped in a green sari
With a wicker basket full of moons
Walks, a daylight ghost…

Her face is shrouded by culture
But the nose ring hanging brightly
Boldly calls out to you…

You could take her by her noose
And make her circle you
For a payment, she could be yours…

None call out to her, you see her silently pass
Months ago, she had washed the kitchens
To make moons appear, there…

Her eyes a dirty white, unread
The trials of her leathery skin
Her muscles and organs, worked fine…

She had slept on porches as drunkards
Slurred songs and slurped her up
She was the gatherer who drifted away…

The Wrapped in her green wellworn sari
White hairs peep behind curtains…

She was cast away but hunger
Calls her back to the streets
Women still think of her moons…

Had she come as the sun bid goodbye
Maybe a smile or two would have met her
But her journey is long, she begun long ago…

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The Heat

Beyond the window
Is the Heat

A hyena, waiting to devour…

Its fangs will bore into your flesh
Magenta marks left on your skin
A blueprint of champa’s, modified…

Canvas boards watermarked and glazed
Pencils and paint and poetry
Make it Art, price tagged…

The tumbler in front, tumbled
Humpty Dumpty fumbled
The Heat, it will kill you…

Looking right through it
There is no fear, no trepidation
You will drown in your sweat…

In saline drops, the sea calls you
You can hear the waves lacing the shore
The Heat has pearls, that gleam…

Pigeons and squirrels in heat
The dogs and cattle too,
Humans in the Heat, swelter…

A butterfly flowered from the caterpillar
It was yellow or white, a little late
Summer’s present, presented precariously…

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The Archer

There is an Archer
Gilded bow, quiver full of arrows
And strong shoulders to carry them…

There is bird
Wings spread like the ocean
Cutting the air, surroundings…

Eyes into the eye, into the concealed heart
An arrow will go,
Where the Archer debates…

Green fields tell stories
There is a cherry tree
Where love was made…

The breeze doesn’t blow
But strains from a flute seems prominent
Is it the bird, you’re confused…

That twig, would be perfect for the nest
And those leaves, speak comfort
And delicious that red velvet bug…

She was swooping down
When the arrow hit, thud
Eye or heart, it didn’t matter…

The bird would fly again, it always does
The Archer chest swollen is ready
He can shoot again, anytime…

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The Quake

I feel the ground swaying
Or is it just another hallucination
Is the world shattering outside or inside?

Either ways I’ll be broke
Empathize, sympathy is the fool’s offering
You’ll break too, we will be rubbles soon…

Dust to dust, ashes to ashes
We pulled the ethereal down, pulled the plug
Pyre smoke spirals gray into the sky…

If you knew where they come from
The saline river of the eye
Nirvana would be served on a platter…

If I knew Wrath’s mother, that juvenile imbecile man she say,
Tucked within his mothers womb
I’d say a thousand times, you’re not worth it, neither of you…

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The End

This is the end, my only friend, the end
A prayer
That goes beyond your realm…

How futile do you feel
When you know you don’t hold the reel
You don’t know how it will unfurl?

Does it hurt your heart
To realize that your options
Don’t hold you dear?

Then when you wake
Your dreams fleet away
You shudder and shake…

The blue faced, breathless soul
Wouldn’t puke into the bowl
Had it been known, the end…

There is the black hole
Within a swirling tornado
Where you’ll exist in a limbo…

So this is the end, my only friend, the end
Beyond the words
Where you’ll exist in a limbo…

You and I…
(2nd edition)

Dreams evade me
For you are a waking dream
What have I off sleep?

I was in a clasp once
Made of two hands
Yours and mine…

You had shrugged away
Not knowing my trinket
Wasn’t worn for unchartered affinities…

Lovers thought of love
And delved into histories
We unnoticed, unwrit and real, thrived…

We are an unkissed kiss
A wine impregnated grape
Royal and heady, masses lusting after…

One day, we will sit
Eyes boring into eyes
We will burn ourselves out…

 

 

 

2 Responses

  1. Your poems are not mere poems.. they are conversations.. they are rivers.. they are carousels of emotions.. Keep writing, keep writing, keep writing.

  2. Rusha says:

    Awesome woman of words…u say things which cant be said…
    Kudos!

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