On the work of the poet Enxhi Krasniqi
BY PILO ZYBA
Lately I have been closely following the work of a lady who seems to have entered the gates and concert halls of poetry “by chance,” or so the author herself claims, but I hold a different view. The artist, in general, is a flower that grows in the great garden of life alongside other flowers. For a long time, it might not stand out in color, fragrance, or taste. But a day comes when it sets itself apart, whether for the reader, the wider community of creators, or the critics. Without meaning to, the artist comes to realize that creation is no longer a mere desire to please oneself, but a necessity that offers no peace, urging, pushing, and pulling them, stealing their hours and casting them into the lap of fantasy and inspiration to shape the form, beauty, and substance of their poetic creations. Thus, the author begins to love; they feel light and joyful, possessing a persistent desire and urge to sow their thoughts in the fields of paper, to share them with tens, hundreds, or thousands of readers. From this moment on, the poet, writer, or musician—the talented individual—enters the aforementioned triad. They view everything around them artistically, giving it form and thought, breathing life into it and turning it into art. First and foremost, the artist as a human being falls in love with the themes they wish to explore, and then the love they have for them, and with them, brings to life the art they create... and the art created is their children, be it poetry, music, painting, and so on. Without this close bond of artist–love–creation, they cannot succeed. But what is happening with the work of the author in question?
I observe and single out these qualities in her poetic art. Her most chosen themes are patriotism, social issues, and lyrical love. If you separate these themes, they resemble three beautiful children of a mother who cares deeply for her offspring, her poems. Let us take them one by one, illustrating them with her creations...
The poem ...
SPREAD MY WORD
for my children
You!... My fruit!...
You took the light and flame of my lantern,
you took my warmth,
you took my wind and my storm.
The poet dedicates this poem to her children, who, though in exile, wish to preserve intact the nation, patriotism, and language inherited from their mother. The mother forges the magical bond of her love with her heirs... she extends a bridge of unity, of survival, and above all, of communication between the past and the present, the present and the generations to come... and this bond is impossible without the bridge of language, through which the mother speaks to her children. To push further that flame of language they have received from their mother.
HEAD AND TIME RECONCILE
Eagle wings caress my footprint
from within me comes a voice:
“Hope and Desire
will not flee from you!...
Above the starlight—
there where the scent of the earth forever reigns,
there where the Kingdom of Albanianism lies,
there where I wipe the tear of blood amidst time,
There, no force can overturn the desire!...”
To comment on these lines and the idea they encompass seems entirely pointless to me, because the author herself does it better than anyone else... Rarely has anyone expressed their desire for Kosovo’s independence in this manner, in this form, and with a thought as simple and beautiful as it is deep and meaningful. Living far from the national territories, the author in question is more sensitive to the struggle for independence and freedom, understanding that within her and her compatriots, this desire is a fire they have brought with them from Kosovo and keep burning in exile... they feed it and raise its flames with their great desire.
In what I read, I understand that the author deeply loves the theme she writes about; she experiences what she wants to say, and then, having adopted it, she casts it onto the white sheet of creation, giving it a name (a title) and the mothering that bears her name. This is one of the three parts of the triad I mentioned earlier.
THE DAWN OF TOMORROW
People hunched by old troubles
along with the birds that hurt their wings,
stand in their silence,
as if held hostage in the hollows of the body,
huddled from the pain,
from the fear of the cold,
from the mystery and the dark.
Waiting to warm up even a little,
waiting for the unexpected,
for what time brings...!?
Independence has now sat cross-legged in martyred Kosovo; the author of the poem sees, understands, and feels this up close. But Enxhi is not satisfied with just that; she looks inside this society at the wounds of war, the insecurity, the poverty, and the injustice itself. This is seen by a capable, sharp eye and a mind that knows how to make the social analyses hidden behind it. The poverty, the infrastructure, the spiritual world, and the social unrest of the masses. This perspective makes the poetry both beautiful and demanding, but it also turns a new page in search of a national healing for these wounds left by the war, and those harbored within by the past itself in its battle with the new, in order to march alongside developed nations.
***
Everyone was amazed and astonished when Beethoven created unattainable art while deaf, when Van Gogh created color palettes unattainable up to his time, when Mozart created his Requiem at a very, very young age. But today everything is clear...
The great artist Beethoven was spiritually in love with his grand themes... first and foremost, his powerful symphonies were played in his volcanic soul. Within his soul, they possessed weight, form, and majesty. The musical instruments were simply his lovers, whose rib vibrations, laughter and tears, caresses and quarrels he knew intimately. Knowing every part of their bodies perfectly, he knew well the notes and the pains or despairs they expressed when his hand and mind caressed them, scolded them, or struck them... thus, the notes were merely the language with which he expressed that world he held in his great and enamored soul. The notes were that invisible bridge connecting his art to the listeners, ultimately granting him success among the masses. So the love he had for art and creation did not pass through his ear, but through his soul and mind, through the perspective and clarity with which he saw, loved, and fought, to then forge it into genuine art that would withstand the storms of time... Paganini did the same when he enlarged the bow of his violin and the violin itself; today this seems and sounds logical... the violin of his time could not contain Paganini’s world, for he had a deeper breath, a broader perspective, and greater depth than his contemporaries...
In this piece, I am not drawing parallels between world colossuses and Ms. Enxhi, but simply trying to clarify the connections between the creator, love, and their art.
Finally, to conclude, I will take another of the author’s poems to look at her love and her art.
RETOUCHED WAVES
A low sun with a platinum blur,
with a tinge of pain yet warm,
pierced through with the color and wing of a dove
and mingled with the cold fog...
It wakes the shock of pleasant acquaintance
rolling toward the destination of desire,
toward the sought and awaited joy,
through the mad quilt of the soul,
so I am not left suppressed, like another’s decor...
Lost from the world
along with the endless shivers in my trench coat,
where I cannot resist the brilliant warmth,
of unexpected pleasures,
though I sigh, weakened,
and tremble in your embrace,
lost in an amusing state
of a hypnotic sleep,
bitten by the magic,
from which I cannot flee!...
Impregnated with the colored rain
turned into silver water,
to gather unconsciously
in irrepressible evasions,
to hold YOU.. from kiss to kiss..
where with a hot wave coming to me from the sky
I see the shadow fluttering over the retouched waves,
with a splash of sun...
While lost in an artist’s dream,
I follow the journey in the shining of the soul!...
I believe this poem is worth analyzing and examining carefully. Before it becomes a poem, the author falls in love with it and with herself on the verge of creation. Like a mother, in this case too, the creator becomes pregnant with the creative and inspirational thematic seed. Just as in the sexual sense, within the mother, but also in male creators, the organism that receives the creation as a new being in the maternal womb creates the conditions for the mother, the artist, to be able to grow the poetry embryo inside her or him. First it takes shape, and then, as it grows, its bodily beauties emerge—the arms, the head, the body—and later it is enriched with philosophical, figurative, and aesthetic thought. The poet’s deep sensitivity and chosen verse make their creative plasma beloved by the reader, whom it relaxes and inspires, while also creating a beautiful artistic vision, the suit in which the author has dressed their creature. In the end, after a captivating concert with sweet notes of love, the author raises the intonation of the spiritual notes in the finale and unleashes an emotional outburst, making the reader think, savor, and understand the depth, clarity, and beauty of the spiritual world expressed in the poem...
While lost in an artist’s dream,
I follow the journey in the shining of the soul!...
The finale is as beautiful as it is far-sighted and guiding for the one who reads it...
To tell the truth, I do not know the author in question personally, but I know her art, which I have read recently. As far as I know... she has not published volumes of poetry, but is preparing for her first volume. But this does not mean we should stay silent before what we see. We must call the beautiful, beautiful, and regardless of quantity, I think we should not deny the values each person holds in their art, whether it spans volumes or is sparse at the source, yet it can be crystalline to the eye, pure to drink, and good to the taste...
On this occasion, we wish her success in the long marathon of art, as she writes not only poetry but also prose with the very same values we described above...
