IRMA KURTI is an Albanian poet, writer, lyricist, journalist, and translator, and has been writing since she was a child. She is a naturalized Italian and lives in Bergamo, Italy. All her books are dedicated to the memory of her beloved parents, Hasan Kurti and Sherife Mezini, who have supported and encouraged every step of her literary path.
She was awarded the Universum Donna International Prize IX Edition 2013 for Literature and received a lifetime nomination as an Ambassador of Peace by the University of Peace in Switzerland. In 2020, she became the honorary president of WikiPoesia, the encyclopedia of poetry. In 2021, she was awarded the title of Liria (Freedom) by the Italian-Albanian community in Italy.
She received the Grazia Deledda medal and diploma of merit from the National Committee of WikiPoesia on the 150th anniversary of the birth of the great Italian poet. In 2023, she was awarded a Career Award from the Universum Academy Switzerland.
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| Irma Kurti |
She received the Grazia Deledda medal and diploma of merit from the National Committee of WikiPoesia on the 150th anniversary of the birth of the great Italian poet. In 2023, she was awarded a Career Award from the Universum Academy Switzerland.
- Irma Kurti is a member of the jury for several literary competitions in Italy. She is also a translator for the Ithaca Foundation in Spain.
- Irma Kurti has published more than 115 works, including books of poetry, fiction, and translations. She is one of the most translated and published Albanian poets. Her books have been translated and published in 23 countries.
WINDS OF THE PAST
Winds of the past, take me with you,
and just like a leaf, send me away,
let me fly in the immense blue,
throw me then onto my homeland.
Drop me on my house balcony.
Leave me on its cool white floor.
I want to hear the sounds and noises,
smell the perfumes that I have lost.
I want to relive those remote days,
the pure and infinite love,
meet my parents, the dearest and
most beautiful things in my life.
I’ll be humble like an autumn leaf.
In the end, send me where you want.
I’ll end up on the surface of the sea,
but I’ll always be safe in my country.
Winds of the past, take me with you,
and just like a leaf, send me away . . .
WITH A CHILD’S EYES
I want to see the world with a child’s eyes
almond-shaped, clear, limpid, and innocent:
a meadow where people and flowers grow,
where hunger, poverty, and evil are absent.
I want to see the world with a child’s eyes,
feel caressed by my dreams’ incantation,
be able to touch the horizon with one hand
and reach the stars using only a ladder.
I don’t want to see the world with my own
eyes. They’ve seen too much, they see the
universe behind a thick permanent haze.
Immersed in tears that never dry.
ONE WORD
Often, one word is more than enough
to warm your body as if by magic,
making anxiety, that rigid piece of ice,
melt and flow away like a stream.
A word, then the waves of sadness
in one minute change into bubbles.
Your shy smile is a ray of sunshine
that soon breaks through the clouds.
One word is enough . . . but strangely,
even that, the people don’t want to say.
IN THE SAME BOAT
“Am I dying?” you asked me suddenly,
your transparent skin, like a white sheet.
“Is this my goodbye to life?” A tear fell
from your eyes, the last leaf on the tree.
I rested my fingers on your hand, slowly
whispering, “You’re not leaving at all.
We die a little bit every hour, every day,
so we’re equal, we’re in the same boat.”
I TREMBLE LIKE A LEAF
It’s happening very often, every day,
that nostalgia knocks on my anima
and after a call on the cell phone
it seems as if you speak to me, Mother:
“Sweetheart, get well dressed, it’s cold,
don’t get tired, take care of yourself!”
I feel protected, don’t have any fears,
I’m changed into a child by her voice ...
My mother can no longer return
and I can’t breathe; I feel weak, alone,
she cannot caress me with her glance,
her affection cannot save me anymore.
No one else can replace her in my heart,
she’s gone, has gone, has gone forever,
we can’t divide a teardrop into two,
can’t share joy, happiness together.
I live always this very strange sensation,
I wait, as I tremble like an autumn leaf,
after every ring of the cell phone, Mother,
your voice will caress me like a breeze.
IT’S RAINING IN MY SOUL
I miss our conversations so much, Dad,
in the long afternoons in a foreign city.
In this abyss of silence into which you
have fallen, I cannot find even myself.
And in these days, I keep talking to you
in the hospital room, no windows at all.
Who knows how many kisses I’ve given
you? I’ve never given them before.
Everything I say is true, Dad,
even this infinite gap created in my day,
until I tell you that it’s raining outside
and the weather is dark, cold, and so bad.
I can’t tell you there’s a beautiful sun,
that flowers are in bloom, new lives are
born, because you loved spring. Now, in
this bed, your body and mind are trapped.
It’s raining outside and in my soul . . .
