Echoes of the Ionian: The Enduring Poetry of Fatos Arapi
Fatos Arapi unquestionably stands as a pivotal figure among contemporary Albanian poets. Alongside luminaries like Ismail Kadare and Dritëro Agolli, he played a crucial role in liberating Albanian poetry from the confines of rigid schematism that had ensnared it prior to the emergence of their generation.
A Polish critic, in the introduction to Fatos Arapi’s selected poems published in Polish, once remarked, ‘The birthplace often shapes the poet’s identity.’ Born in Vlora, nestled by the sea, Arapi carried the essence of his hometown—the Mediterranean allure and the historical depth of Vlora, alongside the enchantment of the sea—wherever his journeys led him, a bond that endured till his last breath. His poetry, both in its overarching themes and its intricate artistic nuances, draws heavily from the natural landscape and coastal ambiance. This influence permeates his verses, manifesting in hues, melodies, cadences, and scents, evolving into a metaphor for life itself.
Furthermore, themes of freedom and his beloved homeland, Albania, particularly its capital Tirana, echo throughout his work. Arapi’s poetry resonates with poignant reflections on freedom suppressed under dictatorship and the plight of Kosovo, not merely through rhetorical grandeur, but via vivid imagery, paradoxes, and compelling parables.
Fatos Arapi (July 19, 1930 – October 11, 2018), hailing from Zvërnec near the bustling port city of Vlora, stands as a luminary in the realm of literature, renowned for his philosophical verse, tender love lyrics, and poignant elegies reflecting on mortality. His academic journey led him to delve into economics in Sofia, Bulgaria, from 1949 to 1954, following which he embarked on a career as a journalist and lecturer in modern Albanian literature in Tirana.
In his seminal works, “Shtigje poetike” (Poetic Paths) published in Tirana in 1962, and “Poema dhe vjersha” (Poems and Verses) in Tirana in 1966, Arapi distinguished himself by embracing more contemporary verse forms, thus charting a course for the revival of Albanian poetry after years of stagnation. As a child of the Ionian Sea, Arapi’s enchantment with the shimmering waters of the Mediterranean, the briny aroma of sea breeze, and the luminous intensity of southern coastal light infuse his poetry with a timeless allure. His verses resonate with a delicate balance between the serenity of the waves and the rhythmic cadences of his inner self.
Throughout his illustrious career, Fatos Arapi penned over 25 literary works. Following the demise of the communist regime, he fervently contributed to the literary landscape with numerous volumes of verse and short stories, solidifying his position as a preeminent figure in contemporary Albanian literature.
On the Shoulders of my Times
On the shoulders of my times
I rested my head.
I did not sleep. I did not doze.
On the shoulders of my times,
As on Her shoulder
I was lost in thought.
If I Die Young…
Like the linden tree, words spread their fragrance through the twilight,
Deep in the words I have spoken,
As in the depths of the Ionian,
I see my face.
I feel no pity for myself,
I do not lament my fate.
And if I die young,
Do not close my eyes…
I wish no candles… just let me watch
The stars come out in the heavens above me.
If I die young.
[Në vdeksha i ri…, from the volume Poema dhe vjersha, Tirana: Naim Frashëri, 1966, p. 58. First published in English in An Elusive Eagle Soars, Anthology of Modern Albanian Poetry, London: Forest Books, 1993, p. 39. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]Life
Life is a railway station of partings and meetings.
We are constant travellers,
Holding in our hands our inseparable baggage,
A little suitcase
Of struggles, onslaughts and memories.
I Dived into the Waters of the Ionian Sea
I dived into the waters of the Ionian Sea,
Into its hues and light.
I swim in a blaze of mirages,
Their sparkle captivates me,
Makes me quiver… And I feel:
Shooting through my soul,
Like azure currents of joy,
The very light and hues of the Ionian Sea.
Like azure currents of joy.
[U krodha në ujrat e Jonit, from the volume Poema dhe vjersha, Tirana: Naim Frashëri, 1966, p. 62. First published in English in An Elusive Eagle Soars, Anthology of Modern Albanian Poetry, London: Forest Books, 1993, p. 41. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie]Do Not Hate Me
Do not hate me.
The two of us were once
Like sky and sea:
If one clouded over, the other grew dark,
If one cleared, the other turned azure.
You and I were once
Like two logs on the fire:
Separated we died out,
United we raged.
But how soon love
Turned to hatred…
Do not hate me…
The Workers
They are constantly entering poems,
day and night.
They do not wait for the heavy gates to be opened
By intellectual love, by refined, delicate thinking.
They enter poems as they enter factories, plants,
Full of energy,
noise and passion.
They ring the sirens, turn on the motors, begin work.
The facade of the poem resounds with drills, with lathes.
The grey, metallic air shudders with the vibrations.
They mount the scaffolding,
the verses.
With a soldering-tool in hand they solder
iron and rhythms and tender rimes,
They test the calibres and the strength
Of our thoughts
and of our loves.
Sultan Murat and the Albanian
Sultan Murat sat astride his steed
And observed the prisoner bound hand and foot:
His advanced age, his wounds, his chains…
‘Albanian,’ he inquired, ‘Why do you fight
When you could live differently?’
‘Because, Padishah,’ replied the prisoner,
‘Every man has a piece of the sky in his breast,
And in it flies a swallow.’
Autumn Morning
Autumn has poured its colours into my soul.
The colours of my soul
I have decanted
Into the coming days.
This morning, the skies were bathed by the autumn rains,
This morning
I refreshed my soul in the rains of time.
Leaving Vlora
I am leaving without saying good-bye to the sea.
This one time
I did not foray to those familiar banks to bid farewell
To the gulls. I can no longer bear their absence.
Perhaps I am growing old,
My cells are beginning to falter and perhaps…
My heart is failing.
I can no longer stand
That distance of body from body.
Must I be off?
Without turning back!
Yet on my lacerated lips
Do I sense the searing sting of iodine and sea salt.
You Will Come
You will come, my beloved, will you not?
Because you know I am waiting for you,
Listening to the heavy breath of evening,
Listening to the whisper of the wait,
Listening to the sigh of my solitude.
You will come, my beloved, will you not?
For you know that, if I could,
I would spin the planet
Like an orange in my hand,
To make time fly faster
to have you with me at last…
The Brothers of Pegasus
Ancient confusion in those wise,
those fond eyes…
Beside a car, beneath a traffic light,
Elegant, glistening in the sun
and the wind.
They neigh,
The brothers of Pegasus. Volatile,
As if spewed from the bowels of the earth.
With dazzling tassels on their brows
they snort,
The coursers of Kosova.
Give Me a Name
We are born and our bodies are clothed in names,
Someone lays us in a name-shell,
Then they engrave on the white marble,
On a stone bust something like:
Caesar
or Brutus.
Give me a name…
A far-off, distant name… then a near-by one.
May they be Siamese twins.
Have you forgotten?
You say Kruja
And you hear Cartagena.
Names are born, they grow and perish.
Names, fall in love, like people,
And in their love-making pierce the skin
of one another.
Did you call out Othello?
The answer will be: Desdemona.
Give me a name…
Names melt and liquify on our lips,
Like strawberries and grapes.
Covered in their mould, you unwillingly
lick your fingers.
Give me a name…
That I may be for you,
Like the vital force in a drop of blood,
That you venture forth on me
as you would on a road.
In my body you have sown
Wars and virtue,
Wounds and tombs.
Give me a name…
That I may soar like Icarus
Inside a teardrop.
Poems on My Mother
Little Mother
Mother has shrunk,
As if constantly stooping,
My heart quivers,
So brittle, so tiny…
Almost as if she were my child,
my mother.
She paces the room, back and forth,
Talks to herself,
Is always searching in a corner,
Has always lost something,
Something or other.
She paces the room, back and forth,
And I get the feeling
She is going to trip over
The beams of sunlight
Flooding through the window,
my mother.
And Don’t Forget
I just took her to the hospital
and she says to me:
“When you come by tomorrow, bring me my slippers,
And the scissors for my nails,
And the newspaper.
Oh, my little treasure, and don’t forget
The black scarf,
my widow’s scarf.
No More Letters
I don’t get any more letters from my mother,
Letters in which she always asks for money,
Money for her heart medication,
Money for her eye treatment.
My mother’s eyes cannot see anymore,
My mother’s heart does not beat anymore,
And now, at the end of every month
I have 200 leks left over in my pocket
To whom shall I send them?
Winter sun
How quickly the flowers have covered my mother’s grave,
February has just begun, and already the violets
And the daisies are everywhere,
This is my mother,
Like a winter sun
Down
There.
