Rozi Theohari
Rozi Theohari i botoi vjershat dhe prozat e veta qysh në vitet ’60 në gazeta e revista të ndryshme si “Drita”, “Hosteni”, “Shqiptarja e re”, “Fatosi” etj. Ka lëvruar vjershat humoristike e tregimin humoristik si për të rriturit, ashtu dhe për fëmijet. Për lexuesin e rritur ka botuar disa libra: “Telashe nga emancipimi” (1969), “Në mungesë të gruas sime” (1973), “Shoku Ndricim hapi kasafortën” (1977), “Pa diagnozë” (1978), “Teto Kalina” (1990). Në vitin 1987 ka shkruar skenarin e filmit artistik “Familja ime.” Për lexuesit e vegjël ka botuar dy përmbledhje me tregime.
Rozi emigroi ne Amerikë në vitin 1994 me familjen e saj. Përvec dy fakulteteve, atij Ekonomik dhe të Historisë e të Filologjisë, të kryera në Universitetin e Tiranës, në vitin 2000 ajo perfundoi me sukses e u diplomua nga North Shore Community College në Lynn, Mass, USA, në degën “Artet Liberale.” Emri i Rozi Theoharit u vendos në Librin e Nderit “The National Dean’s List”, 1997-1998, si studente e dalluar dhe e nderuar e kolegjeve amerikane. Që prej 13 vjetësh në Amerikë vazhdon të jetë anëtare e shoqërisë së nderit “Phi Theta Kappa”.
Në vitin 2002 ajo botoi në anglisht vellimin me poezi “Tëo Halves”, në vitin 2003 botoi në anglisht e shqip poemën “Rozafat”, në vitin 2004 romanin “Lajthitje dimërore”, në vitin 2005 librin “Mbi thinja fryn erë”, ne vitin 2006 librin publicistik “Jehona Skënderbegiane”, në vitin 2007 vëllimin poetik “Rozafa’s Tears On The River Drina” në tri gjuhë, anglisht, rumanisht dhe shqip, në vitin 2008 librin “Më shumë se një jetë”.
Rozi vazhdon një aktivitet të mirë letrar në USA. Ajo është anëtare e Shoqatës së shkrimtarëve shqiptaro-amerikanë dhe boton në revistën “Pena” të kësaj shoqate. Po ashtu, boton në gazetën shqiptaro-amerikane “Illyria” dhe në gazetat amerikane, si dhe merr pjesë në aktivitetet kulturore të shtetit të Massachusettsit etj.
Për vitin 2005 Rozi Theohari është nderuar nga Shoqata e shkrimtarëve shqiptaro-amerikanë me çmimin “Pena e Artë” për librin “Mbi thinja fryn erë”.
Rozi Theohari në vitin 2006 fitoi Honour Prize në Konkursin Letrar Ndërkombëtar të “Maison Naaman Pour la Culture”, duke u bërë dhe Anëtare Nderi e kësaj shoqate.
Katër libra të Rozit ndodhen në Bibliotekën e Kongresit Amerikan në Vashington DC.
MOTHER TERESA : “BY BLOOD I AM ALBANIAN”
And they questioned Mother Teresa:
“Why are you wearing white?”
And she revealed a little bit of
Her white and blue striped veil
Showed them a piece of cambric underneath
And said peacefully:
“I am an Albanian woman,
We have our hair tied up
In a white cotton head kerchief
Our good omen…our tradition—is this…”
The whiteness of her spirit made her ready for Heaven.
And they questioned Mother again:
“What will you do when you retire?”
And she pronounced modestly:
“I am a good cleaner,
As all Albanian mothers and sisters,
We wash the wooden floors with brush and soap
Making them bright like a mirror,
There is no woman who can do a better job!”
She desired to clean the surface of the globe
From diseases, wounds and poverty…
Didn’t she transform, this queen of humanism,
Because she was an Albanian—nurtured
By her birthplace’s tradition of self-denial?
Teresian virtue—the sinless humanity
Is an ancient piece of the Albanian’s genes
At the beginning on Illyria’s antique lands
Echoing and revealing civilization’s first morning…
Mother Teresa ended:
“What the world needs now is Love.”
TO TAKE THE PLUNGE
My dear grandson, Jan,
on Thursday, February 12, 2004,
behind our building,
on the iced coast of the ocean
unexpectedly, a seal appeared.
At the moment I thought
If you were there, with me, to see…
Oh, you seal
The harp-shaped seal
Motley—black and grey
Stuck on the white Lynn Harbor ice
Like a child’s drawing on the paper.
“Hey, we have a visitor, there!”
She left the underocean world
Escaping from her caring mother
Alone in icy February, after
Traveling many miles with acrobatic
Flippers splaying…curios about the earth!
You fluffy pup—frightened and panicked
In a morning fog mixed with cold air.
There,
Side by side on the edge of Lynn Harbor.
Did you want the fresh air in your lungs?
Or are you hoping to meet…Whom?
Coming slowly in this gentle, peaceful place
No noise. Only the winter silence
On 50 Lynnway, the ocean’s shore.
Is it your first venture so near spring?
A long journey in the ocean
Without mother’s guidance
Navigating dangerous games?
You lift up your small head
Directing
Your black bulging eyes
To the eight-story building’s windows
Watching many grandmothers-grandfathers’ faces
In this tower for elders.
Their compassionate eyes are a message:
“To your shelter and family—go back…go back!”
Oh, you seal
The harp-shaped seal
Before your fate is sealed:
Do return to your mother, harp seal.
Shyly, she takes the plunge into the icy water.
DEVAL PATRICK— A NEW EPOCH
I shook hands with black people
(they were kind)
For the first time in my life, in Lynn, Mass, America…
I learned at the Boston Public Library:
About the first black Senator from Massachusetts—Edward Brooke
In the 60’s—70’s last century…
(He is kind too)
I voted for a black governor
(a symbol of hope, love, life & dreams)
For the first time in my life
In Massachusetts—The Commonwealth
In this century—November 2006
Deval Patrick—
The first black governor in the history of Mass
(Only the second in the US)
Deval Patrick– the dramatic expression
Of a new epoch.
January, 2007
I R E L A N D
1
Let me honor Ireland
This marvelous land
Where angels fold their wings
Where the sounds of the streams
Whisper the poet Yeats’ dreams…
Let me glorify Stone-Aged Ireland
Touching dolmens—the Cyclops stones
Walking over the basalt columns
On the Giant’s Causeway
There, through the crashing waves
Of the Atlantic sea
As long ago the giants stepped.
Visiting medieval fortresses
And many castles’ roof-tops
The green mountains, the marble caves
The splendor of rivers and waterfalls
Full of history, myths, fairytales
Where flourishes the Celtic soul.
2
Let me congratulate
The great-grand-children of the Irish people
Who emigrated in the 1840s
From the port of Londonderry to America.
Today, in 2005, these Irish-Americans
Are sending a stone home
To connect with each other and Ireland.
There is an Irish proverbial saying:
Curri mi clich er do charne
“I will add a stone to your cairn.”
The engraved stones with words:
“Mother”, “Bless”, “Peace”, “Pray…”
Are sent from America as a tribute
To the memory of “The Tonnes”, a lough, where
The Foyle river meets the salt Atlantic waters
And is the legendary burial place
Of the Celtic seagod Manamman Mac Lir.
Just here, the American stones
Will be dropped into the turbulent waters
These dreams, wishes, hopes and prayers
Will sink to the Irish otherworld…
Backward to their ancestors!
Homecoming:
An bealach’ na bhaile!
Beyond conflict being
The post-peace message.
T H E M O T H E R—D A U G H T E R P H O N E C A LL
(Dedicated to my daughter for Mother’s Day)
--- Hi, mama, why didn’t you tell me?
--- Tell what?
--- Why didn’t you tell me?
--- A mother raises a daughter
Teaching her confidence.
-- Why didn’t you tell me?
--- I told you how to love and to pray to God!
--- Why didn’t you tell me?
--- No one knows how I caressed you
girl—reciting
In tones so sweet—heart touching stories…
--- Why didn’t you tell me?
--- And you’re still growing swiftly
My respect for you is mingled with
admiration,
--- Why didn’t you tell me?
--- Listen, the love of a mother
Brings the blissful days, doesn’t it?
--- Why didn’t you tell me?
--- Of course my dear,
Sometimes days are blue
Becoming weary…very blue
But you have a husband for praising!
--- Why didn’t you tell me?
--- Look…you did manage your first pregnancy
I knew you could do it—I’m proud of
The cutest girl that a mother ever had.
--- Why didn’t you tell me?
--- Oh…telling what…my child!?
--- H o w m u c h I w o u I d l o v e
m y b a b y !
M A Y 2003
IN THE VETERAN'S DEATH
The flag finishes fluttering
The monuments--echoing
The ocean refrains from waving
The wind ceases blowing
Birds stop migrating
Flowers stop blooming
People quit moving
The nation retreats from honoring
The invalid's wound begins cauterizing
The friend's tear lies freezing
The candles dim shinning
Children no longer smiling
WHEN THE VETERAN IS DYING
R H O D E I S L A N D, 20 FEBRUARY 2003
As winter is walking with white snow boots
R.I. Spring Flower & Garden Show—Providence
Is celebrating a decade in bloom.
There where three young blond girls
Just putting in their long hair
Three crowns of red tulips
“Don’t tell the tulips it’s not spring.”
Three girls followed by the breath of spring
Strode in the MALL where each bought
An elegant short skirt
Going for dancing at a West Warwick nightclub.
Lunch time…a good time at
“Capital Grille”—right in the heart of
Downtown Providence.
Three girls with brittle figures
And red tulips over blond hair
Ate citrus grilled chicken sandwiches
Gazing innocent eyes
To the four round big clocks on the wall
With four different clock watch hands. Each clock
Named : London, Tokyo, Paris, New York.
“Different time, but they all work!
Right now in London they’re dancing
Oh, what a dream—to visit those cities, some day…”
Smiled three youthful, the purest of girls.
………………………………………….
The evening breezes blow the girls’ hair
Walking there, inside at the nightclub
Where “Desert Moon”
Was rocking by Great White.
After using lipsticks and small mirrors, the three
Pushing between fans
Applauding, cheering, dancing,
Going closer and closer to the
Pyrotechnic fire
Getting burned and dying…
Their fresh tulips were trampled and broken
By the running crowd…
A tragedy. A traumatic loss. A reminder.
A reality of the desert moon.
In seconds their lives’ clocks stopped
Like three butterflies attracted
By the lantern’s light—and getting death.
A reminder. Every winter’s end
Three butterfly-girls will fly—rising and falling
Over W.Warwick, London, Tokyo, New York, Paris
Followed by the breath of spring
Sighing, whispering, and praying painfully:
“P e o p l e,
D o p r o t e c t p e o p l e