Daim Miftari, born 1979 in Gostivar, Macedonia, holds a Master’s degree in Albanian Language and Literature from Skopje University. He has published a number of books in both Albanian and Macedonian, his poetry has been translated and published in anthologies, newspapers and literary magazines in Macedonia and abroad and has earned him acclaim with literary critics. In 2017 he was granted the POETEKA literary residence in Tirana, Albania.
He lives in the multilingual city of Skopje, where he works as journalist, translator, and teacher.
Ices
If it Wasn’t Me
if it wasn’t me
someone else would be living
in the apartment where I live today
in the same city
on the same street
at the same address
and those days would be quite the same
with all the seasons inside
all the happenings
joys and sadnesses
glees accidents foolishnesses
like loaded trucks
if it wasn’t me
someone else would be standing
on the same balcony where I stand
late at nights at times
watching the street fall asleep
like a tired traveler
under the neon lights
and the shadows of trees
suddenly his thoughts would fly
across the mountains
to the childhood home
that he too might have abandoned
and to some dreams
teared like the clothes
by some stubborn tree branch on the street
and to his word
his given word
that he would love her and cherish her
forever
and later on he’d ask
where did she disappear
her joyous stare
her thin laughter
and sometimes like a bird
on an April-green branch
sadness would rest upon her face
if it wasn’t me
someone else similar to me
would suffer to the bone
from the frauds unjustices
revenges greeds
losses infidelities
and when feeling tired
from the urban noise
he would yearn to put his head to rest
he would also hide
far far away
if it wasn’t me
someone else like me
would have friends
to go out with
and the world would seem nice at times
and sometimes he’d spit on it
and he’d hate his bad fortunes
for not living somewhere else
where he’d be better off
with his family
because he would also be married with kids
and would go out with them at the weekends
and carry them about
and worry about them
and their future
and play with them
in the evenings and read them tales
and often trapped
by some curious question
would try to find answers
when his kids would grow up he’d tell them about life
and his past
his loves
his dreams
his regrets
and against his will a tear would drop
like water gathered from tree leafs by the wind
after a crazy rainstorm
and still he’d say
he’s happy anyways
with everything he’s accomplished in life
he’d have a library full of books
to read
any time he’d get a chance
or perhaps he’d have another trade
it’s mustn’t be poetry
There May Come a Day
there may come a day when I cry out
kind of annoyed
to hell with all my poems
written and unwritten
I’m so tired of them
putting each word in its proper place
in each sentence
much like a kid lost in his gaming world
and I sure was happy just as one
each time I believed that I had succeeded
and then just like a kid started all over again
thinking surely
I could be doing something else
easier perhaps or more useful
than wasting my time like this
but I realize then
I am not really skilled to do anything else
Sometimes My Life
sometimes my life
thinks in vain
about many things
that might have been different
and turned otherwise
unsure until the end
how everything could have developed
if things didn’t happen
the way they happened
and made everything as it is
my life goes nuts
sometimes
when I say you still
should be happy
with how everything turned out
and that I envy myself
Translated by Sasho Spasoski