Eqrem Basha (1948) is a poet, storyteller and novelist born in Dibër. He completed his studies in Albanian Language and Literature at the University of Prishtina. He is one of the founders of the Dukagjini Publishing House. Basha has published ten poetry books, six prose books and four novels. Has written film and TV scripts, arts critique, and has translated from French (Malraux, Sartre, Camus, Beckett, Ionesco, Levi-Strauss) and Italian (Ungaretti). In 1999 Fayard (Paris) he published a book with stories, in 2018 another French publisher, Non Lieu, published his novel Lakorja e Ik’sit. His poetry collections have been published in France, Poland, USA, etc
Nighttime traveller of this world
He did not get up like everyone else – in the morning
For him the day began in the trenches of the desperate
He arrived in this world from the night
And travels nocturnally to reach the day’s end
He did not get up when the sun rose
Nor was he born when ants awakened
In the final analysis you cannot write poetry about him
Because he is not human but a mole feeding
On the rotting roots of this world
He is neither alone nor with friends
To do his portrait you need shadows
Greyish hues and light filtering in through the fog
He did not get up like everyone else – in the morning
He travels his whole life long from the edge
To the heart of darkness
He belongs – as they say – to the family of the mole
Which respectable folk chase with poison
To protect their healthy roots
You cannot write even a verse about him
Although he is sensitive and employed
Married to a wife who loves him, with two or three children
With two or three m……washed his face in the morning dew
The light reflecting in the sparkling waters of the pristine well
Always keeps him blind
This is why he does not sleep when the rest of us do
He does not get up when everyone else does
He is quite prosaic on matters of poetry
You cannot write a ballad, modern verse
Or short lyrics about him
He is someone you never notice
From Building No. 7 of District No. 3, Unit CX 12/7, No. 23
On the 12th floor of Residence 47, left wing
A proletarian with a milk bottle at the door every day
And a roll of newspapers criticizing the degenerate morals
Of the world in which he lives
Any verse about him would be without appeal
And yet
He lives in this world
And merits
Having two or three words
Written about him
In a poem
Ode to mediocrity
We the mediocre
Were born somewhere in the middle
Cried in mezza voce
Were wrapped in medium-quality swaddling clothes
Neither expensive
Nor cheap
We the mediocre
Neither rose
Nor fell
We left a bit of space at the beginning
And at the end
So that our blades would not be blunted
We the mediocre
Eat at mid-day
Sit midpoint at the table
Find our names halfway down the list
Speak up in the middle of a conversation
Tighten our belt at the midriff
Have a beauty spot amid our brow
We the mediocre
Bite into the centre of the apple
We the mediocre
Get married neither young nor old
We the mediocre
In the midst of mid-life
Build an average home
Neither wealthy nor poor
We the mediocre
Neither clever nor stupid
Neither strong nor weak
We the mediocre
Neither big nor small
Neither guilty nor innocent
We the mediocre
Equidistant at middle-age
Live an average life
In the middle of this century
And in the middling midst of the middle
We get accustomed to it
We the mediocre
And do not stop at the end of the road
And do not start at the beginning
But stand rather somewhere
In the middle
We the mediocre
Walk right through the middle of the world
Translated by Robert Elsie
