Translated from the Albanian by Ani Gjika
We continue our celebration of Women in Translation Month this week. Katherine E. Young, Poet Laureate Emerita of Arlington, Virginia writes:
August is Women in Translation Month, an international event held every August since 2014. Why? Here in the U.S., fewer than 800 books in translation (that number covers all literary genres!) are published in any given year. Of those 800 books, fewer than one third are works written by women. Clearly, we are not hearing enough womenās voices from around the world ā not even from those languages where their work is originally published as frequently as the work of men.
Women in Translation Month is the brainchild of Meytal Radzinski, an Israeli scientist and book lover who noticed how few women she was reading in translation. Radzinski had two goals in mind when she founded the event: to increase dialogue and discussion about women writers in translation, and to encourage people to read more books by women in translation. Her advocacy has been eagerly seconded by booksellers, literary programmers (including the CafƩ Muse reading series here in the DC area), and online supporters. If you enjoy these poems, I urge you to support women authors, their translators, their publishers, and the booksellers who carry their work: go buy a book (or two!) by a woman in translation!
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Lice Season
Itās the season when lice race up the oak bark
at dizzying speeds
all the way to the top where birds worship the skies.
Itās the season where everywhere their presence stuns.
The ambition to be first,
no, to be the best.
Itās the season that doesnāt resemble the promised season of change
but a whole different one, of deception.
When freedom is trampled on.
Like an iron curtain an impossibility hangs,
the impossibility to wipe out nits before they hatch.
A river in Canada
recently turned green.
Not a result of the reflection of the trees
but of transformation.
Lice, too, are transforming,
self-proclaiming that they resemble birds,
seeking wings, threatening to cover the sun.
What a season!
And now theyāve heard of a St. Valentine roaming the world
who keeps love stable.
Lice want to serenade a love song
as they run over undying freedom.
First published in Taos Journal of International Poetry and Art, Issue 9, 2017
Stinƫ Morrash
Eshtƫ stina, kur morrat u ngjiten pemƫve
Me shpejtƫsi maramendƫse,
deri nƫ majƫ, atje ku zogjtƫ i luten qiellit.
Eshtƫ stina, ku tƫ cudit prania e tyre kudo.
Ambicia pƫr tƫ qƫnƫ tƫ pare,
Jo, mƫ tƫ mirƫ.
Eshtƫ stina, qƫ nuk i ngjan stinƫs pƫr ndryshim,
Por njƫ stine tƫ re pƫr mashtrim.
Ku liria meret nƫpƫr kƫmbƫ.
Si perde hekuri varet njƫ pamundƫsi,
PamundĆ«si pĆ«r tāi zhdukur parazitĆ«t nga rrĆ«njĆ«t.
Ujrat e njƫ lumi nƫ Kanada,
U kthyen nƫ ngjyrƫ jeshile
Kƫtƫ nuk e ndryshuan reflekset e pyjeve
Por tjetƫrsimi.
Morrat po tjetƫrsohen gjithashtu,
po vetshpallen se u ngjajnƫ zogjve,
Po kƫrkojnƫ krahƫ, dritƫn tƫ zƫnƫ rezikojnƫ.
Oh cāfare stine!
Ku liria meret nƫpƫr kƫmbƫ morrash.
Kanƫ dƫgjuar morrat se nƫpƫr botƫ endet njƫ Shƫn Valentin
Qƫ dashurinƫ e mban tƫ patjetƫrsuar
Morrat duan tƫ kƫndojnƫ serenatƫn e dashurisƫ
Duke marƫ nƫpƫr kƫmbƫ tƫ shkelur lirinƫ e amƫshuar.
What Cannot Change
I try to write
but erase more
and further ache.
We lost one another.
Relatives became strangers,
with strangers weāve come so close.
I search for someone
whose face might resemble my motherās.
Sometimes I find the color of her hair
but not how sheād comb it.
A young woman on the street
tall and slender like my sister
without my sisterās voice.
An elderly man
pensive like my father
but his footsteps make no sound.
I search for whatās mine.
It remains out of reach.
Thatās why I write
even though I erase
even though I ache.
Cfarƫ Nuk Mund Tƫ Jetƫ Ndryshe
Pƫrpiqem tƫ shkruaj
e mƫ shumƫ shuaj
e mƫ shumƫ vuaj.
Era qƫ fryu na ndau.
Tanƫt u bƫnƫ tƫ huaj,
me tƫ huajt rrimƫ kaq pranƫ.
Kƫrkoj dicka tƫ ngjashme
me fytyrƫn e nƫnƫs sime
nganjƫherƫ gjej ngjyrƫn e flokƫve
por jo krehjen e saj.
Njƫ vajzƫ nƫ rrugƫ,
ƫshtƫ elegante si motra ime
por nuk ka zƫrin e saj.
Njƫ burrƫ i moshuar
i menduar si babai im
por nuk ka zhurmƫn e hapit tƫ tij.
Kƫrkoj timen.
Ka mbetur larg.
Ndaj shkruaj
dhe pse shuaj
dhe pse vuaj.

Julia Gjika is an Albanian poet and essayist living and writing in the United States since 1996. She belongs to the first generation of Albanian women poets, having published her first book Ditƫlindje (Birthday) in 1971, followed by Ku Gjej Poezinƫ (Where I Find Poetry) in 1978. Gjika is the author of three other collections of poetry characterized by intensely moving and deft writing about the immigrant experience. Her work is widely published in Albanian magazines, has been translated into Polish, and has appeared in English in Two Lines Online, Gobshite Quarterly, 236 Magazine, Taos Journal of International Poetry and Art and elsewhere.

Ani Gjika is an Albanian-born poet, literary translator, and author of Bread on Running Waters (2013). She is the recipient of a Robert Pinsky Global fellowship, English PEN Award, and an NEA translation grant. Her translation of Albanian poet Luljeta Lleshanakuās Negative Space (New Directions, 2018) was shortlisted for the 2019 International Griffin Poetry Prize.
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Image: CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=170481
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