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Ermira Mitre Kokomani – Drinking with Charles Bukowski

A Writer’s Habit

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Live Encounters Poetry & Writing, Volume One, December 2020.

Ermira Mitre Kokomani is a bilingual poet, essayist and translator living in New Jersey, USA. She has published poetry, short stories and scientific papers in Albania and United States. She defines poetry as “the song of the soul with healing power”. Last year her book of poetry “The Soul’s Gravity” was published in Albanian. The book is a literary journey where she brings alive her infinite soul of courage to dare love life even when it crumbles. Her poetry has appeared in CAPS book “Mightier-Poets for Social Justice” New York, 2020, Rutherford Red Wheelbarrow 13, New Jersey 2020, the international anthology of “The POET” summer 2020, “ON THE ROAD”. Also in Mediterranean Poetry 2019, Montclair Write Group anthology, NJ 2018, and a range of other print and online publications. Ermira has also translated from Albanian into English the fiction novel “The King’s Shadow” authored by Viktor Canosinaj, published in Amazon and Albania 2018. Ermira has majored in English Language and has taught writing in NJ colleges for some years. She works for Rutgers University libraries. She is a member of Montclair Write Group, in Montclair NJ and Red Wheelbarrow Poets, Rutherford NJ, and regularly reads her poetry in Open Mic events in New Jersey, New York, and France. Facebook page: Ermira Mitre



The Existence

Blossoming fresh every morning like a Lotus flower,
and waking up by touching the dawn,
while the eye balls kissing the vastness of the light.
Waking and feeling the joy of being alive.
Living through the day and experience,
the joy of living, the thunders, the storms,
the earthquakes, the adversity that bring shakiness,
and awakens me as much as the labor of a childbirth.
Still standing up and building up being grabbed,
infused by the strength that lies beneath and beyond.
And yet, blooming peacefully as a Sacred Lotus,
with petals of purity not ruined by waterspouts.

Sleeping is falling in quietness and stillness,
and darkness of the other side of our existence,
Being born thus waking up,
living through the experience,
and Dying thus Sleeping in Stillness,
are the matching pieces of a puzzle,
named as “our known but unknown existence.”

Still blossoming fresh every morning, a sacred Lotus,
breathing within our life’s unending cycles.

We All Burn in the End

Stacked over one another in ages,
years burn in fire as wood,
some turn into sly ember to sting,
some into ashes of strength.

Burning is a challenge, dear,
over time, as kindling we burn,
in wrath we burn our bridges,
coming across brittle paths.

Burning inside self, dear,
our concern for those we love,
if we give them enough esse,
what do they give us in return?

We all burn in one fire, dear, we all burn in the end.

Burning from hate is defiance, dear,
If, who we hate, hates us more,
then we worry and wonder,
what springs from ugly, hate pool?

Burning is extra daring, dear
when love-hate shadows emerge,
stemming from the Erebus cave,
pull you in foul plays and blacmal.

Don’t fall in their daunting misery, dear,
in their deep infernal abyss, don’t fall,
instead, slam the door shut behind you,
and sing the Savior’s song.

We all burn in one fire, dear, we all burn in the end.

To be a dissenter from shadow, dear,
It’s the choice of your heart,
sorted is mine, to rise from fire,
like Phoenix ascends above.

As I go ahead, the dust outpaced,
those particles for the rest to wrest,
to breathe in those ashes of might,
I arise amidst rainbows, O’ bless!

We all burn in one fire dear, we all burn in the end.


Drinking with Charles Bukowski

He nodded at me,
the only audience in the room.
His head,
in visible swollen veins
on both temples,
weighing heavier,
filled with verses
that sing and laugh
and clash.

He, drinking beer
I, drinking wine.
I broke the ice:
“How’s your beer Charles?”
“Sad,
from last night’s Presidential debate.”
“How about your wine, Petit?”
“Sour,
because of burned grapes in California’s fire.”

“Do you have your steel up there, Charles?
“I do, Petit, I do.
But, no need to use it on God.
I sharpened it
for the screwed breed
down there, with you.”

I don’t save my advice, Petit,
because saving it makes it inexistent.
Even when I am not there,
I deliver my share in a faraway spirit,
not to do things the wrong way.

Like having
a recession, a depression,
an electoral regression,
a Pearl Harbor, a Hiroshima,
twice,
then roll down of the top
and crash as a lonely dice.


© Ermira Mitre Kokomani