Kreshnik Hoti
KOSOVO | KOSOVO
ABOUT
Kreshnik Hoti is a poet from the Republic of Kosovo who primarily writes in English, but also in other languages he speaks, such as Albanian, French, Turkish, and Hungarian. His writing centers on themes of emotional depth, exploring lost love, faith, and mental health struggles.
On December 26, 2023, he self-published his first poetry collection, titled If You Recall All of Our Conversations, You Have Everything Needed — a homage to lost love, where he explores different stages of grief, transforming pain into art. For this project, he brought together editors, writers, and artists from various European countries, Australia, and the United States, making it truly one of a kind. His first collection was sold across four continents and received positive critical acclaim. The book presentation was supported by the Amicale of the Council of Europe. Additionally, Kreshnik Hoti founded the first multilingual poetry club at the University of Strasbourg, where he studies Linguistics and British/American Literature. In his words, “Poetry is breathing. In the absence of poetry, there is but darkness.”
à propos
Kreshnik Hoti est un poète de la République du Kosovo qui écrit principalement en anglais, mais aussi dans d’autres langues qu’il parle, comme l’albanais, le français, le turc et le hongrois. Son écriture est centrée sur des thèmes de profondeur émotionnelle, explorant l’amour perdu, la foi et les luttes pour la santé mentale.
Le 26 décembre 2023, il a publié son premier recueil de poèmes intitulé If You Recall All Our Conversations, You Have Everything Needed — un hommage à l’amour perdu, où il explore les différentes étapes du chagrin, transformant la douleur en art. Pour ce projet, il a réuni des éditeurs, des écrivains et des artistes de divers pays européens, d’Australie et des États-Unis, le rendant ainsi unique. Sa première collection a été vendue sur quatre continents et a reçu un accueil positif de la part des critiques. La présentation du livre a été soutenue par l’Amicale du Conseil de l’Europe. Kreshnik Hoti a également fondé le premier club de poésie multilingue à l’université de Strasbourg, où il étudie la linguistique et la littérature britannique/américaine. Selon ses mots, “La poésie c’est le souffle. En l’absence de poésie, il n’y a que l’obscurité.”
Two weeks after I met you,
And forgot who I used to be;
Laying on the couch, late that night
When everyone was gone,
You looked at me; so gently.
I dared to look back,
And later I got lost.
A gaze that I leaned into,
And couldn’t get pulled out of.
Drowning in the well of your lies,
Lost in the abyss of your deep ocean eyes.
Those eyes that made of me a fallen angel,
In the eyes of god.
Those eyes that burned me alive.
The only thing I could say was;
Të dua my love.
Two words was all I could say,
Even though all i wanted was get on a rooftop;
And scream out your name; all the way.
I wanted to scream it from the rooftops for the world to hear,
I wanted to scream out your name,
But I was full of fear.
To fall, to love,
Të dua my dear.
Two words stuck in my head,
Inked on my skin forever, now.
Të dua.
Engraved in my memories.
Të dua, Të dua,
Two words, carved into my heart.
Të dua.
It’s hard for me to explain why,
but all I’m thinking about
is taking my own life.
Or maybe a slow death is what I deserve,
for I’ve committed a few crimes.
Do you want to know the funny part?
My life is actually quite a blast—
filled with joy and people,
filled with love and lovers,
filled with disappointments and accomplishments,
mirroring each other on a performance evaluation.
But none of it matters to me—
not the success, not my degree,
nor the money in my bank account.
None of it.
Nothing at all,
but all of it at once.
I want to go to sleep and never wake up again.
I want to close my eyes
and finally say my farewells
in all five languages that I speak,
doomed to hear what they say behind my back,
but pretending I’m deaf so no one bothers me again.
I’m scared of the future and what’s coming,
unhappy with the present, and
terrified of the past—
haunted forever, it feels like.
I love my parents,
and my dear friends,
who are the best
and the sweetest people ever.
But this is bigger than all that.
Bigger than my grades in phonetics,
where they fail us for the pleasure of doing it.
They say there are fewer and fewer places for masters,
so why not screw you over,
and leave those empty seats to the geniuses who fit in academic boxes—
just so they don’t starve to death,
and so that they can feed their future innocent children.
This is a fight between me and myself,
since I remember.
Since I was a little child—
unloved by my own peers,
misunderstood by my parents,
sexually abused by God’s messenger.
God’s messenger, huh—whose job is to make us good, not stain us with cum,
and leave us wondering why, how, when, and again how,
for eternity to come.
I want to open up my wrists and bleed to death.
I want to feel the pain before I’m long gone
and turned to dust—
for the pain will serve as a punishment
for my sins committed in the autarchy
of this evil world we live in.
I want to end the hierarchy society has imposed on me,
on my peers, my fellow poets—on Alan Turing, who saved a couple million people
and was sentenced to death for having loved a man and his penis.
Oh no, wait—he chose to swallow pills,
and maybe force himself to like women
for the sake of the natural and unnatural state of mind
Queen Elizabeth II saw fit.
Oh Ho.
I mean no harm to anyone—
not the people who loved me,
nor the ones who hated my guts.
My guts—I sometimes hate myself.
I mean no harm to my parents,
who loved me dearly and raised me to grow into the sad lover,
seeking only the love they’ve shown me.
I could talk here about Freud and his theories,
but I think that’s unnecessary,
just like his existence.
I mean no harm—
not even to my ex, who at some point
showed feelings and cared for me dearly,
before he turned into a monster, haunting me down
every time I try to love another.
I mean no harm
to my friends who helped me get up,
over and over and over and over,
when I let other men decide my destiny
and take over my decisions.
I want to be gone before Judas’ third eye appears and haunts us
for having believed in Jesus and his authority over humankind.
I want to be selfish for once,
and listen to my inner child—
for I have no desire to live anymore.
I want to be an angel,
fly to places and keep
an eye on you all—
protect you from Lucifer when he comes down
to reach your throats.
I want to look pretty in white,
angelic,
pure—
like Virgin Mary, I might.
I want to dream
the undreamable,
for it matters to me no more.
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