Jeton Kelmendi is one of the most renowned Albanian writers and one of the leading names in contemporary European literature. A poet, essayist, playwright, communication studies scholar, translator, and university professor, he was born in 1978 in Peja, Kosovo, and from the very beginning of his literary career, he has stood out for his unique style and the philosophical depth of his poetic expression.
Kelmendi’s poetry is known for its profound reflections on love, time, existence, and identity. His work is rich with spiritual sensitivity and a masterful intertwining of symbolism with intellectual meditation. He has published over 35 books in the Albanian language, and his works have been translated and published into more than 40 world languages, including English, French, German, Italian, Turkish, Arabic, Russian, and various regional languages. He has also translated more than 70 books between Albanian, English, and French. He is widely considered a distinguished ambassador of Albanian poetry around the globe.
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| Jeton Kelmendi |
Kelmendi is a member of numerous international literary and scientific academies and institutions, including: the European Academy of Sciences and Arts in Salzburg, the Academy of Sciences and Higher Studies of Ukraine, the International Academy of Arts in Paris, and the European Academy of Poetry. He has been invited to participate in dozens of literary festivals and intellectual forums worldwide. He is the recipient of over 50 international literary awards for poetry and contributions to culture.
In the academic sphere, Jeton Kelmendi has completed studies in journalism, holds a master's degree in diplomacy, and a PhD in international relations and mass communication. He is currently a full professor at several European universities and a sought-after lecturer on topics related to political communication and international affairs.
Beyond his literary work, Kelmendi is actively engaged in translating major global authors into Albanian, as well as Albanian authors into foreign languages, helping to build literary bridges between cultures.
Jeton Kelmendi remains a powerful, authentic, and modern voice of Albanian literature and a cultural figure with wide influence on the European stage and beyond. His literature embodies the spirit of the times while maintaining a deep sense of thoughtfulness and human sensitivity.
HERE OR THERE
When I search for myself here, I find me there,
a shadow of a light that delays its dawn.
But when I’m called far away, I am here,
like a breeze drifting through forgotten footprints.
Here I am when I am absent from myself,
there I go when a bit of me becomes too much.
Between two untouched horizons,
a word remains hostage between the lips.
I am there, where memory turns to anarchy,
here, where my steps tread without a sound.
On the threshold of a suspended world,
I stretch my hands toward an endless absence.
Here— is this my place?
There— is that distance or just longing?
On the fabric of unwritten time,
I carve a thought that slips from my hands.
In between, I am nothing and everything,
a path with no return, a border without a gate.
There, I see myself waiting,
here, I wait for what never returns.
If someone finds me, tell me where I am,
for I’m lost between all these heres and theres.
MYSELF—MY STUDENT
My self has become my student:
pampered, yet proud.
Each morning I teach with patience
how to be listenable,
how to say aloud:
“Glory to madness”
when truth sleeps in roads yet paved.
I tell him that time is no longer a teacher,
it’s all trade—
time is advertisement,
time is Doha—where things happen
but where the mind no longer asks for reason.
I speak to my self as a weary teacher:
“Stay, listen, obey… become acceptable!”
But rebellious my student laughs between his teeth,
writes poetry at the page’s edge,
and gives reality a failing grade.
I wish to fail him…
not have this self pass the class,
to make him return
with the book of silence under his arm,
to learn humility
before the absurd we call “modern time.”
But he—
has resolved not to be taught how to be silent,
only how to speak more beautifully.
Oh, what a mistake you are, my student…
I WAS SOUGHT
(A solved formula for life)
I was sought…
as stars are required by the night
when it holds them in its breast
as unspoken bequests.
I was sought to be more than flesh,
more than a wandering spirit,
more than a name in the registers of time.
Once upon a time,
when time had no name,
I did not exist—but I was sought.
In the finest thread of light,
in the thought yet unthought,
in eternity not yet begun,
I was sought—
like a voice that awaits its word.
I was sought to be a forest,
untrodden by the blade of men.
To be a river
that doesn’t ask where it goes,
but goes because it cannot stay.
To be the voice of a newly born child
who opens life’s door with a cry
and closes silence with tears.
But no…
They turned me into a human,
into striving, choices, regret,
into a road with no return,
a stone that stays silent even when struck,
a hope that no longer knows whom to wait for.
I was sought to be God’s first thought
when He decided to create love
without guarantee it would be understood.
I have walked mountains,
not to conquer,
but to distance from crowds that sell belief
like rotten fruit in noisy markets.
I spoke with the wind,
with shadows, with time,
and asked myself:
“If I have not become what I was sought to be,
then who am I?”
And strangely, my self
saw me like a weary father
the child never recognized.
Well, I am my own pursuit.
Not our finish, nor definition,
but the unquenchable desire to become—
Water that never freezes,
a heart that refuses to remain a pump,
but also a harp.
I was sought to be a poem that never ends,
that lives on another’s lips
when she and he speak of the self
without knowing they speak of me.
TRUTH IN THE ERA OF DECEPTION
Here,
truth is buried beneath patriotic speeches
or social media statuses.
It breathes in forgotten cafés
where elders still remember a place that no longer exists,
and young dream escape as freedom.
Here, deception wears the guise of savior,
appears on screen, promises miracles, smiles brightly,
grants the masses illusions of goods that do not exist,
of justice that no one now knows.
Truth here sits in a corner like an unemployed man,
diploma in one hand and hope in his pocket,
but no one asks about him—
because he has no party, no “network.”
Over there,
truth is decorated in complex sentences,
lost in the system of exact statistics,
but cold at the core.
Over there, deception is more elegant,
more ethical, more translated, even democratic,
but still—deception.
There, form is flawless,
but content is hollow.
Truth has no place in contracts of success,
in networks building a faceless world.
Here and there,
the masses just love the dream, not the reality.
Deception sells the dream like ready-made merchandise,
truth invites you to silent labor,
to confrontation with oneself.
And who dares to look behind the mirror?
Who wants to see without the filters stroking self-esteem?
Not many.
Therefore truth walks in the shadows of the century,
uninvited, unannounced, unwelcome—
after all, who needs it anyway?
Yet it remains the only one that,
when everything collapses,
has the power to rebuild.
I’m no longer clear—
does anyone need rebuilding?
Pristina, April 17, 2025
