Why I write


I have often asked myself why I write at such a young age, where most of my friends like to do other things, to ‘live’ in the perception of media and today’s society. Where did the idea of writing start and why have I chosen to write poetry?
While I was in high school and my passion for foreign languages started to  grow, I used to keep a notebook in my bag, for everytime I felt like something beautiful happened I wrote it down. I had never heard of Edgar Allan Poe, Fitzgerald, Jane Austen and other important writers before, but I fell in love with their words the more we read their books and stories in class. My notebook slowly transformed itself into a place where I quoted the most mesmerizing parts of books, where I tried to write my own stories in different styles and  where I wrote my first poems.

The greatest inspirations have been those writers who were able to capture my heart and my mind, who stimulated my brain, who made me feel something. So instead of going to parties I stayed at home, exercising myself, trying to express my emotions in a way where the reader gets hypnotized. F. Scott Fitzgerald remains my personal favorite, he draws me into his books like no other writer. I wish I had lived in his time so I could tell him how wonderful his writings are.

My English teacher, whom I thank more than anyone else, made me understand that writing is not about using difficult words or about trying to sound sophisticated. Writing is an act of expressing yourself, it is putting your life into art. Even though I am still miles away from calling myself a “writer” or a “poet”, I have decided to take this path and try my best. It may be that only a few people take the time to read the stories I tell, but it calms my heart to know that those few people enjoy reading it. Not only that, for me writing is a way of handling sorrow and sadness. No matter how difficult a situation might seem for me, I try to get influenced by it in a positive way, I try to get inspired to write a new poem, a new shortstory.

Inspiration can be found in every corner and every stage of our lives. Even if your heart feels numb and your thoughts are a labyrinth of which you can not escape, writing might be the healing process. No matter if people make fun of me, if they call me names, if they think that my words are worth nothing, I will continue until I have reached the point of self-satisfaction.

May that moment never come.

Jehona Thaqi ©

19. Sept. 2015

Black, bitter coffee

Black, bitter coffee on a sunday morning,
or was it monday, I do not quite remember,
for the days have become the same anyway;
I sit silently in the corner of our living room,
my spine curled and pressed against the wall;
so much space upon the couch we bought,
but I am afraid of not being able to fill the spaces you have left empty.

Black, bitter coffe on a friday night,
or was it saturday, I do not quite remember,
for the days have become the same anyway;
I weep into the freshly washed cussions of our bed,
they smell like lilies and honey,
they smell nothing like you, for I have washed them too many times since the last time you visited,
your scent has vanished out of this house,
yet it is present in everything I touch.

Black, bitter coffee on a wednesday afternoon,
or was it tuesday, I do not quite remember,
for the days have become the same anyway;
I sit at our dining table and read about wars far from home,
I read of homes destroyed, and people buried underneath them,
I cry;
you used to say that there are people dying, 
when I told you that I could not breathe at night, you said that I am fine,
when the lights turned off and my body was shaking in agony of losing the war against my mind, you said that I am egoistic;
I feel the guilt within my tears drown the last hope of winning the wars within me,
I can see people dying, somewhere far,
yet so close.

Black, bitter coffee;
I drink to stay awake,
for the nights scare me,
and there are dreams lurking in the corners of this house,
dreams I do not want to have,
for my dreams have been shattered too many times.

Black, bitter coffee;
I do not sleep anymore
and I have forgotten the days,
just as the days have forgotten me.

Jehona Thaqi©

Light bulbs


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 ©

| Part One


Sitting at the edge of my bed I poured myself a drink or two; I do not quite remember, for the thought of her made me quiver and consumed my capacity of thinking. How strange of a night it has been, I thought, while the first twitterings entered my house and sunrays fell on the white curtains.

She was a delightful woman, with black eyes and porcelain skin; her golden hair falling swiftly upon her shoulders, a scent of honey and flowers made heads turn and eyes follow her at any price.
As she spoke, soft and slow, with an utterly romantic and somewhat tragic voice, and words so bitter-sweet, they could have escaped Oscar Wilde’s novels, people became silent. They listened carefully to what they might never fully understand, but what else could you do but listen to this wonderful creature.
Even her silence was graceful, as she glared at you with a childish curiosity, but a mature strength and recklessness. She rarely smiled, what made me eager to conquer her, for her smile stirred in me the desire of being her only spectator. I was fond of that woman since the day I first saw her at the local’s butcher, what a strange place to meet the woman of your deepest dreams, and so I made sure to encounter her as often as possible.

You see, I only later understood that it was impossible to conquer a woman who possesses every inch of your mind.


It was shortly after noon when the phone rang and I got torn from my dreams. I had fallen asleep with the empty liquor glass tightly slung around my hand; and it was only now that I smelled the awful scent of alcohol within my room. The sun shone brightly at the windows of my apartment and made the air thicker than on the usual rainy days. I lifted my body, still tired of last night, and hushed to the ringing phone. 

“Still asleep, Francis?”. 
It was Dorian, who annoyed me with his too loud and content voice, pretending to be the luckiest man alive and having nothing to worry about. Yet his life too, like many others, was in pieces. “Richard and me will meet at the theatre today, do you want to join us?”, he asked, with the same happy voice. “I’ll be there at six, don’t be late”, I answered and ended the call a few seconds later. 

I was putting on the new olive suit I had bought at Edgar’s a few days before when I realized that my face had altered. My usually pale and hollow cheeks looked vivid in its almost pink colour and it seemed that my gradually blackening hair was as enchanting as ever. I wouldn’t call myself handsome, for I had a crooked nose and small eyes, but ever since I met that woman I had gained something utterly interesting. There was something about her that made my body come to life.

Jehona Thaqi©



         you have been my greatest burden,
who turned my tongue into stone
and my words into concrete,
leaving my speech too heavy to be understood.

You have built walls out of shame,
and left dreams tumbling down,
as women need no homes for themselves,
but need to seek shelter underneath men’s fists.

You told me that women are best when quiet,
and if they talk, they will not be heared.
You told me that there are words women can not speak,
and if they do, they will be heared.

In a world full of hungry men and starving women,
I lost the balance of who I was
and who I should be.
When I weep, you say I will be fine,
as seeking help is shameful,
and every other woman cries sometimes, but does not complain.

Dear Self,
you had the audacity to say
while standing on my throat;
but today I am speaking.

Maybe you will hear my suffocating pain somewhere inbetween a world of lies and pure souls.

Jehona Thaqi©

Little bird


Little bird,
I see the fear within your eyes,
when you look at the endless shapes of clouds above your head,
while you try to fit eternal into boxes of space and time,
but you will learn that space can be filled by love, and love only,
and time is but a deception of mankind,
putting its passing at war with our minds.
What a cruel world you might think,
as it stands upon your wings and tells you to fly,
but your fragile bones have been designed to conquer these skies.

Fear not, little bird,
look at the sky as your savior,
for you will lose trace of this world,
but you will find yourself amongst the clouds.

Jehona Thaqi©

Tranquil hours

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Tranquil hours coverd in warm clothes
tasteful coffee and great stories.

Reading expands the horizon of our minds,
that is what my father told me
when I was too small to comprehend the word horizon,
when the meaning was too far from my world.

Today I caught my father reading a book,
the one he has read at least ten times,
the one that makes him be so still and peaceful.
I asked him if the story did not bore him now,
after so many times going through the same pages.

His horizon must be infinte,
I thought, while touching all the books within our little home,
wondering if he still remembers these stories,
or if they have faded just like the letters inside.

Tranquil hours, filled with warmth that touches my heart.
I have read Fitzgerald again, today.
My father smiled, a victorious smile,
stories will never bore you, if they are written well,
each time you read them, you will fall in love with new words.

“One writes of scars healed, a loose parallel to the pathology of the skin, but there is no such thing in the life of an individual. There are open wounds, shrunk sometimes to the size of a pin-prick but wounds still. The marks of suffering are more comparable to the loss of a finger, or of the sight of an eye. We may not miss them, either, for one minute in a year, but if we should there is nothing to be done about it.”

And I read it again,
and again,
and again.

Jehona Thaqi ©

To my friend A. I.


My friend and I were sitting on the veranda of a coffeehouse in a small alley of our town. We did not talk much that evening, instead we enjoyed every sip of our coffees. Suddenly she lowered her head and asked, with a solid voice but shaking hands, if I believed in love. If I believed that mankind was predestined to love. Or if we learn to love, just as we learn to speak. I had never asked myself if love was a magical thing or if it was something we had been taught to do by history.

I smiled, still thinking of an answer and asking myself if it really did matter. Would it change anything if it was one or the other? What would the point be of knowing where love came from? I leaned back and stared at the sky, how it slowly changed its colour from blue to pink to almost black. It was a cold November night, but a lovely and quiet atmosphere made my body feel safe.

“Maybe I am too naïve, but I think that love comes naturally.”, I said, still watching the skies, refusing to look at her deep brown eyes, “Love has always been with us. It might has changed over the years, with all the movies and books that make us homesick for warm bodies and soft beating hearts. But it must have been here all the time. How else could you explain us falling in love with views and flowers, scents and feelings?”.

She nodded, watching me with an utmost sadness. Even though I avoided looking at her I knew how she felt. Love could be cruel, maybe not love itself, but the way it makes you vulnerable. The way it sometimes makes you dependent on a certain person who can so easily crush everything you ever needed. “Are there people who can not love?”, she asked, with the same voice.

Her voice was one of these rare things you come across in your life if you are lucky enough. It made you go soft inside, even though it was not too feminine, but mellow and tragically lovely to listen to. I knew that her heart was aching at the very moment, but her voice continued being the same solid voice you could listen to all day. No stuttering, no broken words, but a melody as warm as the sound of spring.

“No”, I said, laughing ironically. “We sometimes love too little, or too much. We love the wrong things, seldomly the right. But we all do love. We are all different, so love has to come in different shapes and colours.”. She nodded again, as if my words did not matter at all, as if every other answer would have been the same. I felt dizzy and my vision was blurry, maybe because of all the different light bulbes of this small coffeehouse. How do you explain love to someone who’s heart has been torn by too many people? The lights shone green and yellow and red, I was tired and cold, and tremendously sorry for not being good with words.

She smiled, as if she had read my mind and wanted to say that it is okay. I knew it was not okay. I knew that heartbreak leaves footprints upon the walls of your soul, even love is unable to cover up. But maybe this is the beautiful part. Our broken pieces transform each of us into art. And when we get old, may those days come, we will look back and say we did it. With the right, or the wrong dose of love.

Jehona Thaqi© I would heal you if I could


I can’t precisely remember when or where I had first met her, as she seemed to be an acquainted face, but I know that we introduced ourselves on a day in October; the reddish-brown and yellow leaves were drifting to the ground and covered it like a carpet of colourful delight.

She smiled at me at a distance where I could barely recognize whom she was looking at, but as I was the only person on the road I assumed she had been smiling at me or at some inner thoughts, which I didn’t really consider, as life then did not give you any pleasure to smile at in midst of the street.

When she was only a few steps in front of me and I was completely sure of her smiling at me, she took a further big step into my direction and said without hesitation: “What a beautiful day Dr. Chester, isn’t it?”.

At this point I think it of high importance to introduce myself, even though I won’t be able to tell you many things about my childhood. My name is Roderick Chester, born in a small town in Cheshire, currently living in an even smaller town near London. Almost everyone around here knows me, as I am the only doctor in town. I’m also known for not having children nor wife, but all this is highly connected to my childhood and to my young adulthood, of which I do not want to talk about. All I can say is that I am an honourable man, I will always tell the truth and there is no risk that I may be unable to tell you a story because of forgetting anything. My brain is still young and as I never drink a sip of alcohol, I will not talk about blurred happenings, in the contrary, they will always be crystal-clear.

To get back to the story, the first thing that came to my mind when she talked to me was that she could have been one of my patients, but I could not remember having seen her dark-green eyes within the last few years. “It is, indeed, a quite beautiful day”, I replied after I had analyzed her pale face and dark hair, “but, without wanting to be impolite, dearest Lady, I cannot recollect having seen you here around.”. She smiled again, soundless and somehow emotionless. “I am new in town, but I’ve heard of you, that’s why I recognized you. I am sorry if I have troubled you.”, she said, and without having been able to reply or to say that she did not trouble me at all, she had already made her way towards the centre of the town. I watched her for a few seconds, how she almost danced around the falling leaves and how her dark hair fluttered in the light October-wind.

“Who was she?”, I thought when I had returned home and was putting in order all the letters I had received but not yet opened. I did not know who she was, even though I was almost sure I had seen her somewhere, somewhere different. The image of her haunted me even in my dreams that night, I saw her beautiful green eyes and dark hair glittering and sparkling, as if she was a sort of magical human-being. You may think now that I was attracted to her the way every man would be attracted to a beautiful woman, but it was something different that made me dream of her. It was something irrational, something I am unable to put in words.

The morning came too fast and too bright, sun-rays were burning against my face and branches were tickling the façade of the house with an almost unbearable sound. Luckily it was Sunday, as it was almost noon when I woke up, and had it been a work-day people might have died until I would have shown up at their houses. On Sundays people did not get sick and they surely did not die on that day. So I leaned back into my bed and smiled, even I a bit emotionless: “No people dying today”. Still, I was a bit confused, I didn’t oversleep for years and I felt even more exhausted in this morning than in the evening. I knew that it had to do with the dreams I had. That young woman, approximately twenty years old and twenty years younger than myself, had made me hers in less than twenty seconds. Not in a sexual way though, no woman could stir up such desires in me, the one who could have, was already gone, but something about her made me curious, maybe it was the witness in her eyes or the melody of her voice. I knew I had to meet her again. I had to know what it was that made me almost go mad.

A few moments later I found myself in front of the town council’s house, knocking impatiently at the wooden door. When the old man’s face appeared, still sleepy and quite surprised seeing me on a Sunday, I smiled faintly, asked pardon for visiting at such inappropriate moments and said “I need your help really quickly, I am sure it won’t take you more than 5 minutes.” He opened the door widely, asked me to come in and offered me a cup of tea or coffee, which I both rejected and rather took a glass of cold water to freshen up my mind. After we had accommodated ourselves I started telling him the reason for my unexpected visit. “It is of greatest importance that I can take a glimpse at the inhabitants-list, just to make sure everything is going well with my job. Mr. Marten, you won’t believe me, but I have found myself in big trouble the last week. Can you believe that? I! The town’s only Doctor, being pushed into big problems!”, I said, raising my voice, and I could feel my ears becoming hot, and my cheeks starting to blush, my heart pumping blood throughout my body faster than ever. I hadn’t lied for a long time now, actually I couldn’t even recollect when the last time had been I used this kind of strategy to reach my goals. Naive Mr. Marten looked puzzled, “Why, of course you can have a look at the list. What troubles you Mr. Chester?”. He got up, walked towards a pile of paper and started looking for that list. “Thank you, Mr. Marten, I owe you something! Well, I’m not sure how to put this into words, dear Sir, but people nowadays spit lies like salutes. I suspect that one or two men handed me in their wrong identities, I want to clear that up. You know, Mr. Marten, I surely do not want to operate against the law.”, I said, realizing how ironically I talked about lies. Mr. Marten though, naive and kind as he was, had already found the list and was handing it to me, saying: “Oh, I understand.”.
Bernice Hayton, 21 years old, born in Cheshire. I would have thought it possible to have seen here there, but I am already living in this town for 22 years now and I never visited my hometown in  those years. Of what use her name was, I did not know yet, I still didn’t know why her appearance was such a familiar one.

“Bernice Hayton.”, I whispered and repeated over and over again, until I reached my old and yet beautiful and pleasant house. The light shone so brightly upon my door and my big windows that I wasn’t sure if I was seeing Bernice’s ghost there waiting for me, if it was an illusion or if it was her. I closed my eyes several time to clarify the mystery and somehow I felt crazy, mad and tired as her silhouette did not disappear. Without saying a word I opened the door next to her, waved my had to welcome her and closed the door slowly as nothing strange was happening. I did not care what my neighbours would say the next day, I let her in, Bernice, my yet unknown visitor from Cheshire.

She followed me into the dining room where I served her a cup of tea, without asking her if she wanted some or not. I sat down in front of her, still not having said a word and still quite bewildered. Her cheeks where pale, almost white, her hair dark, she looked unhealthy but beautiful. Yes, indeed, she was a very beautiful and cruel young lady.

“Thank you, Mr. Chester.”, she said, after having taken her first sip of tea. “Roderick, it is my pleasure.”, I replied after some seconds and asked, “what brings you here Miss Hayton?”. She laughed. It was a warm laughter, warm and frightening, unusually loud for a woman. “You know my name as well, I see.”, she said, her eyes fixed on mine. This lady, I thought, knows no shame, even though I grew up in a time where shame was everywhere, everyone had a reason to feel shame, shame was part of every furniture. Puzzled I stared back, shameless, returning her favour. “Roderick, I am not here to steal your time, nor to talk to you about anything in particular. I moved here only to hand you this letter, it was difficult to find you, but I did.”, Bernice said with a calm voice, reaching out a letter. I took the letter, always staring at her eyes, thinking of how long I could look at them without getting bored. Her eyes seemed like the universe, deep and dark, known and unknown. Her eyes were magical.

She had left. Right after I had taken the letter from her, she walked out of my house, noiselessly and swiftly. I turned the letter in my hands, totally lost inside of my own memories. It had only taken me a few moments with her, to realize some of her habits, as for example her rarely blinking. I did not know how to explain how it was possible to keep the eyes open for so long. When she blinked, she did it slowly, she pressed her lids together and kept them close, so that her green eyes disappeared for what seemed to me almost an eternity. Thinking of her, I had already opened the letter, consisting a writing similar to mine.

Dearest Roderick


I have waited for you enough years to return and yet you did not come, you did not write, you did not want to know where your family was. Have you completely forgotten where home is?

You cannot imagine what has happened here, your vanishing did cause us many troubles and I am disappointed of you. How could you leave us without saying a word?

            Mother is sick, she does not sleep at night, she talks of monsters who show up at night and want to harm her. She talks of father, who died six years ago, after you have left, she still sees him when the moon shines through the windows into our broken house. You have made your parents sick, father has died of dishonour, his only son having left him in the mud. He was right when he told me you were an incredibly bizarre person, but I have always refused to believe that you were bad. Now I know better.

            Louise is upset, she married a young lad who treats her well but nothing more than that. You know your sister, she dreamed of marrying her great love, but apparently love does not exist. Or as you always said: “Love is a once in a lifetime thing, there is basically no chance that you will meet love. Or maybe you’ll meet love at the wrong time, just like me.”


I have a daughter as you see, Bernice Hayton. Or should I say I have raised her as my daughter? She does not know her parents, but you, my dearest brother, you do know them. Does she not remind you of someone? Does her recklessness not remind you of a specific person?

            You have ruined me, but this is no tragedy. How beautiful it would have been if you had only ruined me. Roderick, you destroyed your whole family, your beloved ones, your friends and most of all, you destroyed Bernice.


Elizabeth Hayton

More confused than ever I let the letter slip through my hands, and watched it drift to the ground. I did not expect my family to find me and I did not expect them to write to me now, after many years have passed. I stood there as if roots were tangling the floor and furniture around me and I did not know how to move. Suddenly I forgot how to use my feet properly, how to hold something in my hands, how to think and how not to.

My dearest Elizabeth, dearest Mother, dearest Louise


I have received your letter and I know that one should say thank you for it but I am unable to thank you for what you have told me now, after 22 years. You all know that I am no good with words, so I will keep this letter short.

            Yes, I have left without saying anything and I did not regret it until now. I should have told you why I left, why I hated home, not you, but home. And no, Elizabeth, I have not forgotten where home was, I simply tried to retrain any emotions towards all of you. Home was not safety, nor warmth, home was an evil place, I had to leave, as it almost made me go mad. Maybe I am mad.

            My dearest condolences regarding father’s death. I do not know what to say more. I am a mess. I am sorry.


Yours sincerely,



As the ink floated upon the paper, alcohol floated throughout my body. Sip after sip, my world became darker and scarier, I could not see the words I wrote clearly, everything was blurred. “At least I haven’t forgotten the address”, I spoke out loud, laughing pathetically and closing the envelope of my letter.
As the sky had already become dark, I lit a candle and made my way towards the mirror, holding onto the wall, as I was about to fall to the ground that now seemed to me like an abyss. Reaching the mirror I could feel my cheeks getting wet and a faint smile overcame my rather stiff face. “I haven’t cried for years”, I thought, as if those tears meant victory to a war I had long before lost.

The candle flickered furiously near my eyes, as I gazed into the mirror. My cheeks, usually pale, almost white, were now slightly blushed, as if the wine had run through them. My eyes ached, they felt exhausted, but yet I have to admit, their green colour made them seem vivid and mysterious. I stared at my own reflection, as shameless as Bernice did, and it made me sick, it made me want to pull out my graying hair, which once was dark brown, it made me want to tear out those eyes and go blind. I did not want to see myself, nor did I want to see Bernice within this mirror, but my feet refused to walk away.

So I stood there, glaring at my own reflection, until the candle burnt down.

Jehona Thaqi ©