To my husband

I write
whenever I am miserable
and my heart cries in silence
for the empty seats of love within me,
when my mind is heavy
with unsaid words 
and negativity towards itself
– then my hand starts writing 
the most beautiful and tragical poems
I could ever think of.

But today I am writing 
out of happiness and love,
with no empty seats left
– a crowd that has come to witness 
the most magical moment of all.

Today I am breathing
– in and out,
slowly inhaling the sweet scent of your skin;
and exhaling in utter calmness
all problems that we have learned to forget with the passing of time.

Today I am content
with everything there is
and with everything there has ever been.

Jehona Thaqi© thank you, husband


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A letter to my unborn son

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Tonight I watched the full moon
from the open window of my room
and it made me think of you.

If we shall meet,
I will hold your body so close to mine
even if you grow up to be a man
two times my size,
I will clench my hands around your skin
and whisper
it is okay.
Do not be ashamed,
ashamed shall be the one who has made your knuckles bleed,
and the one who has made your voice quiver;
tears are no sign of weakness,
my boy,
they are signs of life.
Weep if you need to,
your mother will be here to listen
while healing your scars with love from a mother’s bleeding heart.

My son,
if we shall meet one day
I will tell you this:
your soul is the reflection of the moon
so full and radiant amongst the sky,
and as calm as my heart tonight.
And if the world tries to make you harsh
you will come running to your mother,
for I will hold your soft hands
and tell you stories of the times I almost became what the world wanted me to be.
You will seek shelter underneath my love,
and I will give to you all I have,
from soul to soul,
I will tell you
to be man enough to be
soft.

Jehona Thaqi©

Privileged tears

The weather has been good, lately,
you say,
while the shy sun enters our home,
frankly, the weather has been good,
but so have we, for the last few years,
and I say years,
for I do not remember the last tear you have shed.

You leave for work,
kissing me goodbye, like within the movies, swiftly, yet lovely,
and I watch you leave as the sun rises,
until you disapear within the bright light of this morning.

The weather has been good, lately,
I think,
while washing the dishes,
and so have we, for the last few years,
yes, years,
for I do not remember the last time you cried.

Tears fall down the sink,
I like to call them my privileged tears;
the weather has been good, lately,
and there is nothing to worry about,
we have been good, too,
for you have not cried in years,
and I have neither,
only on mornings that shone too brightly
against the façade of our home.

Jehona Thaqi©

Tulip

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Tulips grow out of my skin
with roots tangling around this body I once called prison.
To this day, whenever I despise my beating heart,
I remind myself that flowers grow within the cracks of my skin,
inbetween dark and hollow spots,
where once was nothing but grief.
I remind myself that bleeding is healing
and that the tears I cried have been the cleaning rain for my soul.
I remind myself that tulips do not grow
without the cold breeze of winter;
and so do I.
For I have been growing out of pain,
and I will survive each winter to bloom again.

Jehona Thaqi© you will not destroy me

Light bulbs

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Lamps hangig from ceilings
like dead bodies,
glowing with utter boredom,
so still and lifeless,
yet there for the reason when dusk arrives,
until dawn is welcomed.

Dead bodies hangig from ceilings,
like lamps,
moving with the tension of our minds,
so lifeless yet not still;
most when the moon shines bright
but no lights are burning in our homes.

Broken light bulbs like broken souls,
replaced by brighter and greater ones,
with few pennies and little effort.
But have you forgotten
the dead bodies
hangig from ceilings
like lamps?

Have you forgotten the broken light within souls
that needs not to be hanged
in order to shine.

Jehona Thaqi ©

Ribeira

I wonder how many names you had to forget

in order to remember your own,

dear friend;

for you were a masterpiece to this world,

as colorful and historic as the buildings of Porto’s ribeira;

yet broken, for I could see the cracks upon walls

and dying lightbulbs underneath blank ceilings.

I wonder how many heartbreaks you had to live through

in order to love yourself first,

for you thought your heart could hold all of them,

like within this part of the city;

too many temporary visitors dancing through its streets, leaving nothing but footprints behind

and too few lovers who stay to renovate the abandoned homes.

I believe

that your heart is more than a port for desire;

dear friend.

Jehona Thaqi©

Shame

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Women,
eyes fixed upon the ground,
tongues tied, mouths shut,
restless in their spirits, yet noiseless to the world.

Women,
obliged to feel shame at any occasion in their lives,
as if it was part of their very existence.

Men,
loud voices, unfiltered speech,
everything so cruel, so raw,
their eyes never lowered,
too proud, too powerful.

Men
who never felt shame upon their own skin
but burned women with oppression.

How shameless.

Jehona Thaqi© A poem inspired by Salman Rushdie’s novel ‘Shame’. “Between shame and shamelessness lies the axis upon which we turn; meteorological conditions at both these poles are of the most extreme, ferocious type. Shamelessness, shame: the roots of violence.”

An open letter

I sit silently upon our bed
the clock ticking  in the corner of our room,
birds twittering to the melody of a late summer evening
and while the last sunrays enter our small house
I think of your soft hands and mellow lips;
I think of how you used to hold my jaw
as if it was the greatest you have ever held.

Time passes; the clock still ticking,
until its sound diminishes within the blurred pictures of my mind,
skies turn grey and birds fall silent
and I sit there, dry eyes and empty heart,
I sit in order to remember
how you said love would never be forgotten
and how quickly you forgot to call it love.

Sometimes I do not know why I write letters to you
again and again,
unread stories and untold secrets,
floating within the space of your fingers and my desk.

Maybe one day you will have the time to read
what has taken me too long to witness.

Jehona Thaqi©

Endless

I never knew
that love could
shrink
and expand
like the very skin of mine
– stretching into the forms
closest to a Goddess;
growing –
until it fits two lives within one body.

I never knew
that love could
expand
and shrink
like withering flowers
– drying out upon this harsh earth;
until their petals become one with the ground they sleep on.

I never knew
that loving was an endless story
of ups and downs,
of growing and shrinking,
of falling and standing up
– constantly giving
and taking.

I never knew
that you could get tired of love
or the absence of it;
but as soon as I felt love
with its utmost purity
– with its sometimes ugly smile
but its taste of heavenly sweetness –
I knew that love
would stay;
even if it is long gone.

Jehona Thaqi©

If I could

I would put my arms around you if I could;
hold onto the body that held me in silence,
run my fingers across the spine that carried much more than its own weight,
put my cheeks at the edge of the shoulders that have endured rain on sunny days,
wrap my hands around the hardened knuckles and stiff fingers;
but I can not.

You sit across the room,
I glare at your soft features and glowing skin;
your face a mirror of your soul, beautiful and tired,
with wrinkles across your forehead and dark circles underneath your eyes;
I see a young man tired of fighting alone, yet to proud to tell me so –
I would put my arms around you if I could,
but the room grows bigger each time I move towards you,
unable to reach your soft skin and tired soul.

You look at me with big eyes and a vivid smile,
a smile as soft and tender as described in Fitzgerald’s novel,
and you too, like Gatsby, will sooner or later diminish into nothingness
if you do not let me take your pain;
I would put my arms around you if I could,
but the more I run towards you,
the further you seem to be.

I will put my arms around you, dear,
so open up your soul,
for I have love within my broken heart
which can heal both of us.

Jehona Thaqi© I am here