Rozi Theohari
Writer

Bio
Rozi Theohari i botoi vjershat dhe prozat e veta qysh nė vitet '60 nė gazeta e revista tė ndryshme si "Drita", "Hosteni", "Shqiptarja e re", "Fatosi" etj. Ka lėvruar vjershat humoristike e tregimin humoristik si pėr tė rriturit, ashtu dhe pėr fėmijėt. Pėr lexuesin e rritur ka botuar disa libra: "Telashe nga emancipimi" (1969), "Nė mungesė tė gruas sime" (1973), "Shoku Ndriēim hapi kasafortėn" (1977), "Pa diagnozė" (1978), "Teto Kalina" (1990). Nė vitin 1987 ka shkruar skenarin e filmit artistik "Familja ime." Pėr lexuesit e vegjėl ka botuar dy pėrmbledhje me tregime.

Rozi emigroi nė Amerikė nė vitin 1994 me familjen e saj. Pėrveē dy fakulteteve, atij Ekonomik dhe tė Historisė e tė Filologjisė, tė kryera nė Universitetin e Tiranės, nė vitin 2000 ajo perfundoi me sukses dhe u diplomua nga North Shore Community College nė Lynn, Mass, USA, nė degėn "Artet Liberale." Emri i Rozi Theoharit u vendos nė Librin e Nderit "The National Dean's List", 1997-1998, si studente e dalluar dhe e nderuar e kolegjeve amerikane. Qė prej 13 vjetėsh nė Amerikė vazhdon tė jetė anėtare e shoqėrisė sė nderit "Phi Theta Kappa".

Nė vitin 2002 ajo botoi nė anglisht vellimin me poezi "Two Halves", nė vitin 2003 botoi nė anglisht e shqip poemėn "Rozafat", nė vitin 2004 romanin "Lajthitje dimėrore", nė vitin 2005 librin "Mbi thinja fryn erė", nė vitin 2006 librin publicistik "Jehona Skėnderbegiane", nė vitin 2007 vėllimin poetik "Rozafa's Tears On The River Drina" nė tri gjuhė, anglisht, rumanisht dhe shqip, nė vitin 2008 librin "Mė shumė se njė jetė". Ne vitin 2010 ajo ka dėrguar pėr botim njė libėr me poezi nė gjuhėn angleze.

Rozi vazhdon njė aktivitet tė mirė letrar nė USA. Ajo ėshtė anėtare e Shoqatės sė shkrimtarėve shqiptaro-amerikanė dhe boton nė revistėn "Pena" tė kėsaj shoqate. Po ashtu, boton nė gazetėn shqiptaro-amerikane "Illyria", ne gazeten "Dielli" dhe nė gazetat amerikane, si dhe merr pjesė nė aktivitetet kulturore tė shtetit tė Massachusetsit etj.

Pėr vitin 2005 Rozi Theohari ėshtė nderuar nga Shoqata e shkrimtarėve shqiptaro-amerikanė me ēmimin "Pena e Artė" pėr librin "Mbi thinja fryn erė".

Rozi Theohari nė vitin 2006 fitoi Honour Prize nė Konkursin Letrar Ndėrkombėtar tė "Maison Naaman Pour la Culture", duke u bėrė dhe Anėtare Nderi e kėsaj shoqate.

Katėr libra tė Rozit ndodhen nė Bibliotekėn e Kongresit Amerikan nė Washington DC.

REMEMBERING LONGFELLOW

1. "LONGFELLOW BRIDGE"

All alone-Monday November second, 2009
Walking on the long Charles River bridge
That joins Boston and Cambridge
Surrounded by skyscrapers and yellowish leafy trees.
Above, in the blue sky float a few white clouds
As pink cruises slide off onto the teal blue Charles River
The shining water full-of-fall-red-dead-leaves, like tears,
A balmy breeze smoothes the green poster, "Longfellow Bridge"
Named for him-The Nation's Honored !

In his day the poet visited regularly this bridge
Attracting the attention of the passers-by
Walking and reciting his verses with rhythmic steps:
"Gazing with half-open eyelids,
Full of shadowy dreams and visions,
On the dizzy, swimming landscape,
On the gleaming of the water,
On the splendor of the sunset."

I rest on the rusty, thick, old, iron hand rail
Feeling the bridge noise shaking from his steps-absorbed
With the clank of railroad trains, cars, trolley, trucks, bicycles, pedestrians,
While "Boston Duck Tours" swim under me.

O Birch tree! Growing by the mystic Charles River!
In your white-skin wrapper-writing a good hand
"The Song of Hiawatha"-unforgotten narrative.
Save it forever…

The poet's ghostly figure follows me near the banister
It murmurs, repeats, and whispers still,
Fragments of verses chased by steps and by wind,
That shall echo forevermore!

O young girl! In sports uniform and ear phones
Stepping along with the music's melody on the "Longfellow Bridge"
Send the poet a wave.

2. THE NAHANT SUMMERS OF LONGFELLOW

"The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls
Along the sea-sands damp and brown
The traveler hastens toward the town,
And the tide rises, the tide falls."

Perhaps, this "evening of life" thought
Was written of Nahant beaches by Longfellow
In their summer sojourning with his second wife, two boys
And Harvard friends. Boarding in the cottage of the Johnson family.
The sunny summer days Henry swam and walked on the shore
Watched the surf and the white sails between the blue waters
Breathing in the wild pink roses' aroma.
Evenings on the veranda, with books and friends, chatting
Reciting poems of "The Seaside and Fireside"
He wrote inspired by the brilliant Nahant sunset.

During his summers in Nahant, Longfellow came down to people,
Meeting fashion-gloved arms-elegant ladies with big fancy hats
And tail-coated gentlemen, adoring him: "Our Nahant Poet!"
Reading his tale "The Golden Legend," or visiting "Swallow's Cave."
If he wrote for the heroic
He could have tea with former President J. Adams,
If he felt despairing and lonely
He might find himself sitting in the moonlight-looking to the sea
Nahant was his "Treasure Island"-shimmering through his poetry…

The poet left Nahant the last Sunday of August 1851,
The last August Sunday, 2004,
I am sitting on Nahant's south shore, between ocean and forest
At the foundation stones from Johnson's house
Under the shadow of willows, the poet's pleasant trees,
Reading "Evangeline"-over the ruins and the grass
Listening to "Druids of eld"-those prophetic Gaelic priests approach me:
Sighing, "Henry Wadsworth wrote its first large expression, here..."

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks.
Bearded with moss and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld…

The Nahanters joined the Longfellows
In Sunday singing at the Nahant Village Church.
I go every Sunday to the same church, rebuilt,
He is seated near me-I see his profile-praying the lines
Of "Christus," statement of his deep belief, his highest inspiration.

The tide rises, the tide falls,
Printing the poet's name on the sands…

3. THANK YOU-OUR POET !

I walk along Nahant's oak-tree streets
Reciting from "Tales of a Wayside Inn"
Astonished by the magic of his art
"I for ever!"-The Saga of King Olaf
Yes, you are for ever-O King of verses-Henry Wadsworth.
O magnificent ballad-singer!- O national bard !
Not just America fits in your heart
But the whole planet.
The worldwide epic heroes' poet
Familiar with Europe-Longfellow
Even my country-Albania,
Praising our nation's hero-George,
Who vanquished the Turks with his dazzling sword
Your verses-a hymn's impetus-incited the Albanian people
Fighting for freedom from Ottoman Empire.
Your "Scanderbeg" inside "Tales of a Wayside Inn" is immortal !

I, an Albanian daughter
Recite those verses with the rhythm of my spirit
Repeat with the centuries: Scanderbeg…Scanderbeg,
Remembering Longfellow-Our Poet !

2009
"MERRY CHRISTMAS NAHANT"

The last verse of a Longfellow poem
dedicated to Nahant

Seven nights before Christmas
In the evening - December 19, 2009-the roads
Of Nahant-flashing with lights-
The annual Christmas Parade-deafening
Full of cheers, car horn noises, carol melodies.
Nahanters salute from the walkways
In front of their decorated wreathed doors…

On such a night - a Christmas Party
At the almost 200-year-old Jenkins' Hill House
Invited Islanders celebrating…
Seated near the fiercely burning fireplace
I am attracted by a huge lady's portrait
In a large gold ornamental frame.
Her dress striped green and gray
With a delicate white lace open collar,
Wearing a diamond brooch.
She looks at me with dark brown eyes
Her face rose-red from the fire's waves:
"Welcome to the Jenkins' house"-her voice echoes-
"If I could, I would be playing this mahogany piano
As I once did on Christmas Eve.
By chance, as a ghost, as a little bird
I fly tonight in awe!-to the Christmas tree
Where the unseen ghosts of this aged house
Become the white angels
Enjoying the party from their green perches…
A cup of the red Christmas wassail punch-the old style,
I have the desire to drink, to wish:
Blessed are you Nahanters tonight in this place
The past is never dead!"

I elbow through the crowd-the party guests
In the three big living rooms,
No music, no dance. Only conversations.
Cavaliers' red pants and bow ties; elegant ladies in backless gowns-
Standing, stepping, meeting and toasting each other
With crystal wine glasses-meanwhile chatting and laughing…

There are antique objects in this museum house
Like old and new telephones-cellphones that men
Put in their pockets-the wiggling-blue lights shine
Like a handful of fireflies…
The past never dies:
A perpetual Christmas memory on the rock island
In the 21st century dawn
And centuries from now.
Merry Christmas Nahant !

2009
ACTING NEIGHBORLY

Coming from Albania
Ben's grandmother
Visiting him and his sweet wife,
Seated near the window, asks:
"Who is your neighbor?"
"We don't know them!"
Early in the morning
Grandmother bakes a bread with raisins
Divides in two-a native ritual-
Puts one on a plate
And going straight to the next-door neighbor
Full of generous goodwill.
Instantly, a big dog comes from behind-attacking.
The injured old lady lies on the cement-
Her bread behind: "No trespassing" lays.

Calling the police-the owner
Describes the scene he saw from the window:
"…An old, shrunken homeless woman-stupid,
Dressed in black-came right onto my property…"

In Emergency
Sad Ben and his wife-holding grandmother's hands.
"Did she make a mistake?"
In agony, she moves her lips-sighing:
"My beloveds,
You must love your neighbor as yourself!..."

2010