Rozafa Shpuza was born in Shkodra, Albania. After completing High School, she enrolls at University of Literature and successfully graduates in 1990 with a degree in Languages and Literature. She works as a school teacher. Presently, she is editor of parliamentary publications at the Parliament of Albania in Tirana.
In 2011, she publishes her first book in prose entitled “Time of Icons”, followed by “Anipse”, a book with poetry in Geg dialect of Albanian language. In 2016, she publishes her latest literary work named “Grizhlat”.
She practices photography as one of her many hobbies. Rozafa participates in various photography contests in Albania and abroad. In 2015, she opens her first exhibition with photographs from her own collection in Shkodra and Durres.
Rozafa’s literary work and photographs can be found on her blog at rozafaweb.blogspot.al.
Soaring with seagulls
Soaring with seagulls
I linger’d on the verge
of a kiss
a frosty, guileful
the beaming wait
lured me in
lusting me out
of canopy shades,
On tremor’d edge
I held my breath,
snuggled me off
soaring with seagulls.
(Ode to) The old home
Our home had no keys
and days floated smoothly across one room, then the next
my grandmother’s sotto voce refrain
stroking her knots on a nylon thread, like impromptu prayer beads...
Frayed rugs resembled a blind predicament
of doom foretold,
and my whole voyage was a chess game
The old home lingers no more
an epilogue of legends featuring dragons
and I feel the days reappear through keyholes
that were never used,
just like constant transitions in my camera zoom...
By the old house
my backyard awaits
wrapped in high walls,
in unseasoned ivy
snowed upon by hydrangeas
like doll brides shying away.
taut of dull rain,
spread their wings
grimy by gray winds.
grouchy of faded steps,
cradle weak frames
under the smooth weight
of long lost touch,
while broken dreams
throb across cracked walls,
in tearful longing...
Shell of the sea
Hidden in my pocket was a seashell
of which shore, I know not...
I found it as summer folded away
along with few clinging grains of sand
and three coins chiming like nymphs of lonely harbor...
The streaks on her back carved by salty mea culpas
snug in eternal embrace of a love mirage
set adrift for a hundred years across the seas.
I spread her crusty wings gently on my palm
and keep faith that the streaks of fate
will guide my destiny on a path made of dreams...
(translated by:bora shpuza)