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8.3k · Nov 2010
The Light Toy-Railway
The light toy-railway is traveling,
with the kids who aren’t anymore.
To Paris, to Brussels is traveling,
to the Black Africa too.
The light toy-railway is grieving,
for the fawn’s steps under Christmas tree,
for the luster in the eyes and
ah, for the toys.
For the Blue Bird, for the white photos,
for the hand that is putting the little star.
For the dream that’s coming true.

The light toy-railway is traveling.
Traveling.

The original:

Светлото влакче

Светлото влакче пътува,
с децата, които вече не са.
За Париж, Брюксел пътува,
за черната Африка.
Светлото влакче тъгува,
за стъпките на еленчето под елхата,
за блясъка във очите и
ах, за играчките.
За Синята птица, за белите снимки,
за ръката, която поставя звездичка.
За съня, който се сбъдва.

Пътува светлото влакче.
Пътува.


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
7.9k · Jul 2014
“The Second Genesis”
Two Bulgarian poets entered “The Second Genesis” – Anthology of Contemporary World Poetry – India’2014
Poems of the Bulgarian poets Bozhidar Pangelov and Mira Dushkova are included in the Indian project “The Second Genesis: An Anthology of Contemporary World Poetry”. Bozhidar Pangelov’s poems are: “Time is an Idea” and “…I hear” translated by Vessislava Savova; as for Mira Dushkova’s poems – “Beyond”, “Sozopolis” and “The Girl”, they were translated by Petar Kadiyski.


For the authors:
Bozhidar Pangelov was born in the soft month of October in the city of the chestnut trees, Sofia, Bulgaria, where he lives and works. He likes joking that the only authorship which he acknowledges are his three children and the job-hobby in the sphere of the business services. His first book Four Cycles (2005) written entirely with an unknown author but in a complete synchronous on motifs of the Hellenic legends and mythos. The coauthor (Vanja Konstantinova) is an editor of his next book Delta (2005) and she is the woman whom “The Girl Who…” (2008) is dedicated to. His last (so far) book is “The Man Who…” (2009). In June 2013 a bi lingual poetry book A Feather of Fujiama is being published in Amazon.com as a Kindle edition. Some of his poems are translated in Italian, German, Polish, Russian, Chinese and English languages and are published on poetry sites as well as in anthologies and some periodicals all over the world. Bozhidar Pangelov is on of the German project Europe takes Europa ein Gedicht. “Castrop Rauxel ein Gedicht RUHR 2010” and the project “SPRING POETRY RAIN 2012”, Cyprus.
Mira Dushkova (1974) was born in in Veliko Tarnovo, the medieval capital of Bulgaria. She earned a MA degree from the University of Veliko Tarnovo, and later on a PhD in Modern Bulgarian Literature, from Ruse University Angel Kanchev, in 2010, where she is currently teaching literature courses.
Her writing includes poetry, essays, literary criticism and short stories. She has published several poetry books in Bulgarian: “I Try Histories As Clothes“ (1998), „Exercise On The Scarecrow” (2000), „Scents and Sights“ (2004), literary monograph “Semper Idem : Konstantin Konstantinov. Poetics of the late stories“ (2012, 2013) and the story collection „Invisible Things“ (2014).
Her poems have been published in literary editions in Bulgaria, USA, Sweden, Hungary, Croatia, Romania, Turkey and India. Some of her poems and essays have been first prize winners of different Bulgarian contests for literature.
She has attended poetry festivals in Bulgaria, Croatia (Zagreb) and Turkey (Istanbul and Ordu).
She lives in Ruse – Bulgaria.

For the Antology “The Second Genesis”:
In the anthology titled „The Second Genesis“ are published the poems of 150 poets from 57 countries. All poems are in English. The Antology consists of 546 pages. “The Second Genesis” includes authors’ and editors’ biographies and three indexes: of the authors; of the poem titles and an index based on the first verses. It is issued by “A.R.A.W.LII” (Academy of ‘raitɘ(s) And Word Literati) – an academy, which encourages literature and creative writing and realizes cultural connections between India and the other countries. Four times a year ARAWLII publishes in India the international magazine for poetry and creative writing „Prosopisia“. Its Chief Editor and President of A.R.A.W.LII is Prof. Anuraag Sharma. He is also author of Antology’s Introduction.
Participating Countries:
Albania, Argentina, Armenia, Australia, Belgium, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Brazil, Bulgaria, Albania, Great Britain, Germany, Greece, Denmark, Egypt, Estonia, India, Iran, Iraq, Ireland, Israel, Spain, Italy, Jordan, Canada, Cyprus, China, Kosovo, Cuba, Macao, Macedonia, Niger, Norway, Pakistan, Palestine, Poland, Puerto Rico, Romania, Russia, Saudi Arabia, USA, Singapore, Syria, Serbia, Taiwan, Tunis, Turkey, Fiji, Philippines, Finland, France, Holland, Croatia, Montenegro, Czech Republic, Chile, Sweden, Switzerland, Scotland, South Africa, Japan
For the editors:
Anuraag Sharma – editor and president of A.R.A.W.LII
Poet, critic, author of short stories, translator and playwrighter, Anuraag has to his credit the following publications: “Kiske Liye?”, “Punarbhava”, “Audhava”, Dimensions of the Angel: A Study of the poetry of Les Murray’s Poetry “Iswaswillbe” – a collection of short stories, “Setu” (“The Bridges”). He has also co-editor the volume of conference papers: ”Caring Cultures: Sharing Imaginations. Some of his recent publications include: “A Trilogy of plays”, “Mehraab” (“The Arch”) – translations of selected poems of four Canberra Poets, “Papa and Other Poems”, “Sau Baras Ka Sitara Eik” – translation of Andrew Parkin’s “A Star of Hundred Years”, “As if a wooden house I am”- translations of Surendra Chaturverdi, “Satish Verma: The Poet” and “Tere Jaane ke Baad Tere Aane as Pehle”. He is also editor-in-chief of two international journals – “Lemuria” and “Prosopisia”. Currently he is working as a Professor in English at Govt. College “Kekri” Ajmer, India.

Moizur Rehman Khan – co-redactor, project manager, secretary of A.R.A.W.LII
He studied Urdo and Persian Literature in college and later on competed his master degree in English literature from “Dayanand” College, Ajmer, India. He completed his research dissertation under the supervision of Anuraag Sharma on “Major themes in the poetry of Chris Wallas-Crabbe”. He is a creative writer. His poems and articles have been published in various magazines and journals. Currently he is teaching English at DMS, RIE, Ajmer, India.
References for the Antology:
“No middle no end, the poems in The Second Genesis have been speaking to you long before the beginning and will continue without you…don’t worry, its binding has long since unglued, its pages, worn and disheveled, will always be speaking to you, they’ve been compiled this way, to be read out of order, backwards, shelved or scattered in an attic between the coffee and greasy finger stains…The Second Genesis is the history of the Book where you become its words, ink and pulp.”
Craig Czury

“The Second Genesis is at the crossroads of a new poetic becoming. a poetry claiming its second beginning not only for art but the heart pulsating and feeding the entire body. This anthology is a successful fusion of unique, inimitable and polyphonic poetry, a well-organized improvisation with a solid and flexible structure.”

Dalia Staponkute

“The Second Genesis, a compendium of world poetry which is also a poetry of the world, suggests so much a new beginning as it does a recognition of the ongoing creation that continues to animate our collective existence. Our precarious era requires a global affirmation that we are all in this together. Poetry has always said as much, and here it says it again, in the idioms of our time.”
Paul Kane
**
“Visionary and international, The Second Genesis, introduced and edited by Anuraag Sharma, sparkles with poetry of insight, intelligence and feeling and is an indispensable reminder of our human aspirations and experience in the early 21st century. Poets from nearly sixty countries rub shoulders in this ambitious and wide-ranging collection, and their poems resonate and mingle in a multi-layered voice. It is the voice of our humanity.
In his Introduction, Dr. Sharma points to the invaluable importance of poetry in what he calls our destructive Lear era:
Beyond the Lear Century, across the 21st Century lies the island of Prospero and Ariel and Miranda and Ferdinand – the region of faith, hope and innocence, the land of virtue, and all forgiveness sans grievances, sans regrets, sans curses. The doleful shades lead to pastures new.
We must weigh our hopes. The Second Genesis is at hand….”
Diana Sampey
Vania Konstantinova was born, lives and works in Sofia. She graduated Classical Ballet in her native town and in Petersburg as well as Polish Philology in Sofia University and Jagiellonian University, Krakow. She's co-author of the poetic book Four Cycles (along with Bozhidar Pangelov). Her collection of short stories Thank You Mister One is published in autumn of 2008.
http://www.public-republic.com/vania-konstantinova

With all the Homesickness of the Foreigner

"You'll present me one Paris
with all the homesickness of the foreigner"
Vania Konstantinova

He's looking for a job,
but has no shirt,
Rose,
and expectation even in the pocket.
Whether sometimes he doesn't bend
to look how the Seine passes slowly?
Whether it's cold
(that's an author's thought)?
In this circus gleam only
the blue glimmer of the knives
(which yesterday were pawned).
It's a French movie.

Paris is somewhat little
for one grief
and nothing.

Compared with your arm.

The original:

Ваня Константинова е родена, живее и работи в София. Завършила е класически балет в родния си град и в Петербург, а също и полска филология в Софийския университет и в Ягеловския университет в Краков. Съавтор е на поетичната книга “Четири цикъла” (заедно с Божидар Пангелов). През есента на 2008 излиза сборникът й с къси разкази “Благодарим ти, мистър Уан”.
http://www.public-republic.com/vania-konstantinova


Със цялата тъга на чужденеца

"Ти ще ми подариш един Париж
със цялата тъга на чужденеца"
Ваня Константинова

Той търси работа,
а няма риза,
Роза,
и очакване дори във джоба.
Дали понякога не се привежда
да погледне как минава бавно Сена?
Дали е хладно
(тази мисъл е на автора)?
Във този цирк проблясват само
сините отблясъци на ножовете
(които вчера са заложени).
Това е френски филм.

Париж е малко
за една тъга
и нищо.

Пред ръката ти.


*Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
2.8k · May 2011
Sundays
Sundays
in rains
forgotten fragrance
and those non-grown up dreams
for
her hand

Sunday rains

like a faraway
beyond



недели

недели
в дъждове
забравен мирис
и тези непораснали мечти
за
нейната ръка

недели в дъждове

като сбогуване
оттатък



Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved
This is a very special day in Bulgaria, my friends. Here - http://www.balkanfolk.com/news.php?id=23 - you can read more on it.

marigolds
marigolds
San Clemente

and the sun that is
opening
we will lose ourselves
before they find us
in the eternal searching
for ourselves
(and the mind again
steps over us)
did you recognize the happiness
Ahasver

marigolds
(like an epoch)
San Clemente

and I am bowing

The original:

невени

невени
Сан Клементе

и слънцето, което се
разтваря
ще се загубим
преди да ни намерят
във вечното си търсене
на себе си
(и мисълта отново ни
прекрачва)
позна ли щастието
Ахасфере

невени
(като епоха)
Сан Клементе

и се прекланям


In one lateral chapel there is a shrine with the tomb of Saint Cyril of the
Saints Cyril and Methodius who created the Glagolitic alphabet and Christianized the Slavs.

Wandering Jew; the name Ahasver is adapted from Ahasuerus the Persian king in Esther, who was not a Jew, and whose very name among medieval Jews was an exemplum of a fool
/from wikipedia/

Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
2.3k · Dec 2010
*** (crimson mistress)
crimson mistress
(crimson flower
in the swooning gloom)
tell me
why against thy sharp
prickle
(eyes of lynx)
my heart I’m pressing
(æt the nihtegale)
and don’t understand that
freedom
(like the archetype of Moon)
of the kiss
with laughter devoted
in the broad gardens

---------------
(with the nightingale)

The original:

*(тъмночервена господарке)
тъмночервена господарке
(тъмночервено цвете
във припадащия мрак)
кажи ми
защо във острия ти
шип
(очи на рис)
сърцето си притискам
(със славея)
и не разбирам тази
свобода
(както и архетипа на луната)
на целувката
със смях отдадена
в широките градини


*Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
2.3k · Jun 2015
WORLD POETRY YEARBOOK 2014
Please follow the link
https://bogpan.wordpress.com/2015/06/23/world-poetry-yearbook-2014/
2.0k · Dec 2010
The Girl with the Cherries
Happy New Year to all who create beauty with words and moments of hope. Thank you for sharing and new roads with a thin pen.

The Girl with the Cherries

The girl
who used to open
the markets
and lock the day.
The girl with the cherries
is flying away…
And they soared
like rainbows.
The traders’ faces
stretched.
The passers by
sank their hearts.
And somebody
smiled,
gathered the pastels
and went on.


The original:

Момичето с черешите

Момичето,
което отключваше
пазарите
и заключваше деня.
Момичето с черешите
полита ...
И те се вдигнаха
като дъги.
Лицата на търговците
се удължиха.
Минаващите
спряха си сърцето.
А някой
се усмихна,
прибра пастелите
и продължи.


Преводач Български-английски: Савова Vessislava
rarebird
© bogpan - всички права запазени
1.8k · Jun 2011
***(and if you and I are)


and if you and I are
roses
so how much are
the words
mumbled
in the breaking
most tender of the day
and this world is perfect
like a seashell
left by someone
on a desert shore
http://mediabg.eu/Critics_B_Pangelov.html
1.7k · Dec 2010
Travel
Some day, maybe tomorrow
get ready to travel.
The flute is narrating streams.
The leaves are drawing rainbows lightly,
they are soaring in the rain,
nearly not leaving circles.
Travel, travel …
With your soul only
(it is a mute shadow).
With your love
(it has no shadow).
Keep the life,
like music, like rain,
like the blind one who stopped
The Sun.

Travel …

The original:

Пътувай

Някой ден, може би утре,
приготви се да пътуваш.
Флейтата разказва ручеи.
Листата плавно рисуват дъги,
политат в дъжда,
почти не оставят кръгове.
Пътувай, пътувай…
С душата единствено
(тя няма сянка).
С любовта си
(тя няма сянка).
Запази живота,
като музика, като дъжд,
като слепия, който спря
Слънцето.

Пътувай…


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Will you break off with me,
my beloved,
morsel for morsel laddu?
My dream doesn’t come to me,
my bed is divided,
my heart – dry,
fire is rankling me.
You’ll regret,
my beloved,
if you taste it –
outside it’s sweet
inside – bitter.
Twice more,
my beloved,
your tear will run fast
if you pass me by scornfully.
In my chest
I wear a diamond of snake,
a lion-hair on my wrist,
a wealth of Brahman
in my head.
Will someone take them, gifted
someone else but my death?

Ah, my beloved,
marry me.

a round syrup sweet made of gram floor

The original:

Ходжата тича само до джамията

Ще отронваш ли с мене,
моя възлюбена,
късче по късче ладду.
Сънят ми не ме спохожда,
леглото ми е делено,
сърцето – сухо,
огън ме гложди.
Ще съжаляваш,
моя възлюбена,
ако го вкусиш –
отвън е сладко,
отвътре – горчиво.
Дваж пъти повече,
моя възлюбена,
сълзи ще лееш
ако отминеш презрително.
Във гърдите си
диамант от змия нося,
косъм от лъв на китката си,
богатство на брахмин
в главата си.
Ще ги вземе ли някой дарени,
освен смъртта ми?

Ах, моя възлюбена,
омъжи се за мене.

_______

кръгъл сиропиран сладкиш от нахутeно брашно.


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
1.6k · Jan 2011
Dolphin Manifesto
now not anymore
the Island that isn’t
a loneliness but
Choice without being
There we were sitting and
The Sea was coming and
We (me and you) – a gorgeous staple,
Hooked,
were creating and
we saw him (after years and years) how
he was entering
like a rainbow huge
unattainable and
slow
brown – like a beam
(to hold for it)
nonpoetry - the other one is breakable
when the meaning they wave –
a hand of an insane man before a mirror
nongame – the game is dead
after Joyce and like a child is screaming
for the sandy tower after an adult
(a cynical stone) carelessly and with no reason
forded through
the dolphin is a life vital
and his existence aside of the genesis
and whole in the sea and whole
is reflected
nonliterature – the literature is dead
implicated into shape and ad of
the language but
where is here the Rapture
of the dolphin – glamour
oh forgive me I am entering
a someone else’s territory
I am not a ventriloquist too
I do not practice knowledge
there’s nothing new here each
new is unnamed
a vital place without a place
in a movement moveable
smooth like blue
fused in a deep bare
white
1.5k · Dec 2010
blown away
the language is
the most useless
gift
when I listen to you
hypnotized
(with this stupid
pink rose...)

The original:

отвеян

езикът е
най безполезния
дар
когато те слушам
хипнотизиран
( с тази глупава
розова роза…)

Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
1.5k · Jul 2011
Between
and because I am somewhere
between

The East
and
the West
I am going to walk on the little bridge
with outstretched arms

in the underground I see
a girl with orchids
1.4k · Jul 2013
Book/A Feather of Fujiyama/
Hello friends! This is my first bilingual book.HAMMER @ ANVIL BOOKS released my book of poems as e-book on AMAZON Kindle: http: //www.amazon.com/A-Feather-of-Fujiyama-ebook/dp/B 00E5XY5PO/ref=sr11? s=digital-text&ie;=UTF8&qid;=1374938945&sr;=1-1
Special thanks to Vessislava Savova (translator) , Mercedes Webb-Pullman (Editor) , Adam Henry Carriere (Editor) , and my daughter Liliya Pangelova (illustrator)
All proceeds from the sale of this collection will go to the Bulgarian Integrated Education Foundation, working to improve the lives of children and youth with special health and educational needs (including mild Down syndrome, autism / autistic spectrum, cerebral palsy, language-speech disorders, and hyperactivity) and their families.}
Thanks for your support everyone! I wish you happiness and good reading.
Bozhidar Pangelov
1.4k · Jul 2013
A Feather of Fujiyama
Bozhidar Paneglov is a Bulgarian poet. His debut collection in English, A Feather of Fujiyama, will be released in July 2013 by Hammer & Anvil Books.
http://www.dansemacabreonline.com/#!__dm71-postcard
In this issue of the magazine published three poems.
The night is speaking like a cascade.
She’s knitting filigreed lights and shadows.
Sunk in the deep sea
of Sargasso eyes
I stay quiet and don’t find words.
And the scars on your hand
are fading, in order to burn
in my heart.
Oh, sailboats after a long trip
with all the winds in the sails –
sand is calling you.
But it isn’t death!
Oh, it isn’t the end too!
The hand
is going to knock up a hut for you
and in the wide garden
it smells with magnolia and manuscripts…

And I am a sign

The original:

Нощта говори като водоскок

Нощта говори като водоскок.
Преплита филиграрно светлини и сенки.
Потънал във дълбокото море
на сарагасови очи
мълча и не намирам думи.
И белезите на ръката ти
се губят, за да горят
във моето сърце.
О, платноходи след дългото пътуване
със всички ветрове в платната –
зове ви пясък.
Но не е смърт!
О, това не е и краят!
Ръката
ще ви скове на дом
и във широката градина
ухае на магнолии и на ръкописи…

И аз съм знак.


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
1.2k · Jun 2011
Protest (retrospective)
“Miss Corde was reading Plutarch by night the books then used to be taken seriously”
Zbigniew Herbert

(Adam Lux – Meditations)

Miss (or already, why not, Missis)
is reading.
So did she before getting married. The revolution of 1960s All is Love is over.
She used to sleep in tents. Why not?
The freedom has to be defended.
Drums, fires, the screams:
“Down with! Who doesn’t jump is.”
Rumble behind the walls. Marat is. Alive? Death? Used to live?
The time is traveling. The crown’s refined hat.
The hair short. With all the colors.
“In a dress like a blue rock.”
Obelisk? Yes! of passing from
necessity to
necessity (for survival).
Mrs. Corde, is reading. The Game of …
She’s dreaming. “All is love”.
The day is the most usual.

Charlotte?
She administrated justice.
The falling stars are glowing.

The original:

Протест (ретроспективно)

„Госпожица Корде нощем четяла Плутарх
книгите тогава били вземани насериозно“
Збигнев Херберт

( Адам Люкс-Размишления)


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.

Госпожица ( или вече , защо не, госпожа) чете.
Така е чела и преди да се омъжи. Минала е
революцията на 60 -те. “ Всичко е любов“
Спала е в палатките. Защо пък не?
Свободата трябва да се брани.
Барабани, пожари, виковете:
“ Долу! Кой не скача е“
Тътен зад стените. Марат е. Жив? Мъртъв? Живял?
Пътува времето. Короната е фина шапка.
Косата къса. С всички цветове.
„С рокля като синя скала.“
Обелиск? Да! на преминаване от необходимостта в
необходимост( за преживяване).
Госпожа Корде, чете. Играта на…
Мечтае. “ Всичко е любов“.
Денят е най-обикновен.

Шарлот?
Въздаде справедливост.
Звездите падащи сияят.
Democratic changes in Bulgaria started after the Berlin Wall in 1989. Jean Paul Marat, a prominent French Revolution. Charlotte Conde is his murderer.
1.2k · Dec 2010
Encomium
At that hour
the breeze turns around.
The fishermen are coming back
with hands splintery,
without lips,
with eyes of stone.
The bottom is empty
like a bottle at midnight.
The shore is there
where somebody’s waiting.
They’ve sleep for a long time. Dreaming.
With hands locked together.
He, the wind, the last one
an orphan, leads
them…


The original:


Възхвала

Във този час
бризът се обръща.
Рибарите се връщат
с ръце нацепени,
без устни,
с очи от камък.
Дъното е празно
като бутилка в полунощ.
Брегът е там,
където някой чака.
Отдавна спят. Сънуват.
С ръце преплетени.
Той, вятърът, последният
сирак, ги
води…


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.

Out of the black ground they grow –
ghostly windy
fibers
and the birds – wavers
in baskets they plait them
like Venice
gondolas.

And in them we’ll get on.

In channels
of white pigeons
we’ll sail away
when golden bells
their chime
sow

And we will simply settle
The World…"
1.2k · Dec 2010
Rozhen
The Rozhen Monastery of the Nativity of the Mother of God (Bulgarian: Роженски манастир "Рождество Богородично", Rozhenski manastir "Rozhdestvo Bogorodichno") is the biggest monastery in the Pirin Mountains in southwestern Bulgaria. It is one of the few medieval Bulgarian monasteries well preserved until today.
Rozhen Monastery website
http://rozen.pmg-blg.com/index.php

Rozhen

on a dry tree hung
does the monastery hang

and a road is curving
like a snake
with its tail up
do you hear that cry
of the rocks
the silence screams
overcome
by all the words
by the roar of crickets
by the blood in the vains

I've never understood nothing

stuck the palms
and three fingers
above the soil

The original:

рожен

на сухо дърво окачен
виси манастирът

и се извива път
подобно змия
с опашката си нагоре
чуваш ли онзи вик
на скалите
тишината пищи
сломена
от всичките думи
от грохота на щурците
от кръвта във вените

никога нищо не съм разбрал

залепнали дланите
и три пръста
над пръст


*Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
1.2k · Jun 2011
Salamis*
Deep in the ocean,
where the sun
doesn’t reach
and the galleys
of Salamis sleep,
the fish-moons
pass
on tip-toe.

In yellow
the time is shining,
forged
to the oars
of once passed
foam
in flags
dreamers of eternity.

But it happens to me
(at unsaid hour)
in the moon garden
of the sea
to meet the chained ones.

*Salamis - an island in Aegean Sea by which in October, 480 BC the Greek Navy defeats the Persian one and turns the course of action of the Second Greco-Persian War in favor of Greece.

The original:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=chBzZJIPC-Q
1.1k · May 2011
Monday
She is telling something
long, impossible, silently –
vespers in a sheltered hollow.
I understand she has come on the sand
to my left shoulder,
by the fragrance of the oleanders
after rain,
by the slightly half open window
on Monday.

Was it yesterday or tomorrow?



Понеделник

Тя разказва нещо
дълго, невъзможно, тихо -
вечерня в закътана котловина.
Разбирам, че е идвала по пясъка
на лявото ми рамо,
по уханието на олеандрите
след дъжд,
по леко открехнатия прозорец
в понеделник.

Вчера ли беше или утре?



Преводач Български-английски: Савова Vessislava
rarebird
© bogpan - всички права запазени
1.1k · May 2011
American poetry
Today I bought from the market
a kilo of tomatoes
and a few cucumbers.
Totally 4.80 leva.
She also bought a kilo –
less cucumbers
more tomatoes.
For 4.80 leva.
A sunny day.


Bulgarian monetary unit, approximately - $ 1 is 1.5 leva.
1.1k · May 2011
balloon
then we
will be higher with all the beautiful people

e.e. cummings


me

and maybe you too

me too

if we walk hand by hand under rain

and maybe both me and you and rain

with a balloon

and maybe both me and you

and all the children

with a balloon

if we walk hand by hand under rain

it will be wonderful for

the world

with a balloon

you

and me

all the children too

and rain




аз и ти и

тогава ние
ще сме по-високо с всичките красиви хора

е.е къмингс


аз

а може би и ти

и аз

ако вървиме за ръка под дъжд

а може би и аз и ти и дъжд

с балон

а може би и аз и ти

и всичките деца

с балон

ако вървиме за ръка под дъжд

ще е чудесно за

света

с балон

ти

и аз

и всичките деца

и дъжд



Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved
1.0k · Nov 2010
***(The night is flexible)
The night is flexible
the quiet willow
over a lake

traveling

somewhere.
1.0k · Apr 2011
The Newly Rised
Yes, everything here changes.
Again the wheel is turning
wresting with iron fingers
out of my heart steaming blood.
But You, I will not sell You
for thirty silver coins.
The dead ones do not change
neither do the not born,
the newly risen don’t – do not change!
May the changing ones eat
the dust of days, in order to survive.
After Fridays Good,
I know,
The Sundays rise!
1.0k · Apr 2011
a chinese vase
she is like a chinese vase
(i do not know which dynasty from)
most probably of Min one
with the course of time
the smithereens
have broken
(almost invisibly)
you can understand
only
if you pass a finger
on the mouth
on the neck
on
but only if it is bare
without a glove
(velvet or of tulle)
i do not know if i am doing it
but sometimes
in the morns
a light fog
is spreading
then i change my slip cover

it is light
and usually white

китайска ваза

тя е като китайска ваза
(не знам от коя династия)
по вероятно от Мин
с хода на времето
парченца
са се отчупили
(почти невидимо)
можеш да разбереш
само
ако прокараш пръст
по устието
по шията
по
но само ако е гол
без ръкавица
(кадифена или от тюл)
не зная дали го правя
но понякога
в утрините
се стеле
светла мъгла
тогава си сменям калъфката

тя е лека
и обикновено бяла

Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved
997 · Jul 2011
***(refined

at that not (my) Time
I am the one who
I am
and I deny
the atom gods
to the Flower
or to
your hand
refined



*
в това не(мое) Време
аз съм този който
съм
и не признавам
атомните богове
пред Цветето
или пред
твоята ръка
изящна


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved
952 · Dec 2010
Repenting Peter (El Greco)
Giorgos or George Seferis (Γιώργος Σεφέρης) was the pen name of Geōrgios Seferiádēs (Γεώργιος Σεφεριάδης, 13 March [O.S. 29 February] 1900 - September 20, 1971). He was one of the most important Greek poets of the 20th century, and a Nobel laureate.


Repenting Peter (El Greco)

since as
everything is Uttered
a land to even up
the eye
you touch ***** about
the walls
more and more high

(on) cracks
the third road is the hardest
nowhere somewhere
the third road is the easiest
am I
I
cursed
cursing
swear
in net
(Peter)

“that the mighty angel tugs
along with net of fishermen”

G. Seferis

The original:

Каещият се Петър ( Ел Греко)

понеже
всичко е Изречено
земя да равни
окото
пипаш опипваш
стените
се по-високи
(по) пукнати
третият път е най-тежкият
никъде някъде
третият път е най-лесният
аз ли съм
аз
прокълнат
проклинам
заклевам се
в мрежата
( Петър)

“ която мощен ангел дърпа
заедно с мрежа на рибари.“


Г.Сеферис


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
948 · Dec 2010
I'm Calling You by Name
In a while,
in a second
and rain is pouring down.
One expectation like an Alpine horn
and you hardly,
hardly
are alive.
With your little hollows you're listening
to the Labyrinth.
And I have no knowledge.
And I have no map.
But the long movement of moss on the skin
of obelisks.
The calm waters are unleashing into me
and the chestnuts are putting white candles on
(and the autumn is a palm).
Wings, raising
upwards and
upwards...

I'm calling you by name.

The original:

Викам те по име

След миг,
след секунда
и руква дъжд.
Едно очакване като алпииски рог
и ти едва,
едва
си жив.
Със шепите си малки слушаш
Лабиринта.
И нямам знание.
И нямам карта.
А дългото движение на мъх по кожата
на обелиски.
Спокойните води изливат се във мен
и кестените се обличат в бели свещи
( и есента е длан.
Криле, издигащи се
все нагоре,
все нагоре…

И викам те по име.


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
943 · Jul 2011
See
See
They speak at length about the moral.
But I know the pigeon
and its custom
to alight on the shoulders
of the children,
on the palms of enamored,
to sleep
under the roof of Notre Dame.
They speak at length like a wind
in the gutter.
And we are the Sunday bells.

See, the pigeon – dear.
See, the pigeon.


Виж

Говорят дълго за морала.
А аз познавам гълъба
и неговия обичай
да каца на раменете
на децата,
на дланите на влюбените,
да спи
под покрива на Нотр Дам.
Говорят дълго като вятър
във улука.
А ние сме неделните камбани.

Виж, гълъба – мила.
Виж, гълъба.


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
941 · May 2011
American poetry
Today I bought from the market
a kilo of tomatoes
and a few cucumbers.
Totally 4.80 leva.
She also bought a kilo –
less cucumbers
more tomatoes.
For 4.80 leva.
A sunny day.


Bulgarian monetary unit, approximately - $ 1 is 1.5 leva.
The world - a boat and moon
in the ***** of the rains.
Left the hand of God
the soul - a silent flower -
thirst after
soil and light,
air and caress.
It prays to Madonna and Child
like Raphael prays, like Judas
after resurrection.
And like a luster of a coin, through
the Door solely the soul
will pass over - pure -
after the denial of the thought
from itself.

In the ***** of the rains
I pray like a candle.

The original:

*
Светът - лодка и луна
във лоното на дъждовете.
Напуснала ръката божия
душата - тихо цвете -
жадува
пръст и светлина,
въздух и милувка.
Моли се на Мадоната и младенеца
като Рафаело, моли се като Юда
след възкръсване.
И като блясък на монета, през
Вратата единствено душата
ще премине - чиста -
след отказа на мисълта
от себе си.

Във лоното на дъждовете
се моля като свещ.

Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reser
921 · Dec 2010
A Girl with Nasturtiums
The crimson hue in the dusk.
A girl with nasturtiums.
And the streets are starting shaking
like dikes.
The sea is tiptoeing.

A picture of a Dutch.
And of my heart.


The original:

Момиче със латинки

Пурпурната краска в мрака.
Момиче със латинки.
И улиците се разклащат
като диги.
На пръсти е морето.

Картина на холандец.
И на сърцето ми.

Преводач Български-английски: Савова Vessislava
rarebird
© bogpan - всички права запазени.
917 · Aug 2011
August
Just that has left.
The dust of words.
The crumbly August.
The tears.
The rose among the leaves.
And my life,

that you didn't read...


Само това остана.
Прахта на думи.
Ронливият август.
Сълзите.
Розата между листите.
И животът ми,

който не прочете. ...


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved
909 · Dec 2010
betrayers
how fast we give up
to the thought
and tomorrow shadow
covers us up
but we had set off the place
not existing on the maps
from a shore like a pigeon
we kiss the eyelids of the death
but those ones in the mirror we don’t dare
and drown into our voices
till Marathon is an attack
of a heart
but who will be the messenger
for us

the betrayers

The original:

предателите

как бързо се предаваме
пред мисълта
и сянката на утре
ни затрупва
а тръгнахме от място
несъществуващо на картите
от бряг подобно гълъб
целуваме на мъртвите клепачите
а тези в огледалото не смеем
и давим се в гласовете си
до Маратон е удар
на сърце
но кой ще бъде пратеника
за нас

предателите

*Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
898 · Nov 2010
A Flower Princess
You are beautiful like a lie,
Dutch princess,
like twilight - white,
like a dream - impossible.
And you are so little!
I won't achieve you,
even in your steps to
step,
like a scarf cashmere.  
Your shoulder to stork,
waves -  to rise
and I don't want.
Do you see how the road
is glimmering,
when we walk,
with the shoulders and
with our eyes...
Don't you?

The original:

Цвете-принцеса

Като лъжа си красива,
холандска принцеса,
като здрач - бяла,
като мечта - невъзможна.
А си толкова малка!
Няма да те постигна,
дори в стъпките ти да
стъпвам,
като шал камширен.
Рамото ти да галя,
вълни - диги да вдигам,
а и не искам.
Виждаш ли как пътя
присветва,
когато вървим,
с раменете и
със очите си...
Не?


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
The kid in the trolley
is getting up.
Slightly is knocking on the window.
Then he’s waving to somebody.
Speaking:
“No way.
I can’t
call
(forbidden).
No way.
I can’t
look at
(the long coins
on the teeth).
The hands have no way.
I can’t touch
(the hands are holding tightly
The Other Ones).
Now and
yesterday
your face is lost,
my face is lost…”

And the eyes of Sunday are denuding.

The original:

*(Детето във тролея)

Детето във тролея
се изправя.
Лекичко почуква по стъклото.
После махва някому.
Говори:
„Няма как.
Не мога
да се обадя
( забранено).
Няма как.
Не мога
да погледам
( дългите монети
по зъбите).
Ръцете няма как.
Не мога да докосна
( ръцете здраво стискат
Другите).
Сега и
вчера
е изгубено лицето ти,
изгубено лицето ми…”

И се оголват очите на неделята.


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
883 · Dec 2010
At dusk
At dusk
the leaves are bending.

They are fading away.
The light they are closing.

Under the ground
I won't be.


The original:

При свечеряване

При свечеряване
листите се привеждат.

Затихват.
Светлината затварят.

Под земята
няма да бъда.


The original of the poem is in Bulgarian and has been translated and adapted in English by Vessislava Savova.
880 · Jun 2011
Good morning
The Americans are the children of the world
with “Why?”
Children, forgotten the tales.
Forgotten
Hans Chr Andersen and
„The Nightingale”.
How shall I explain to you, oh, emperors,
the tears,
the white roses,
the morn.
How?

Добро утро

Американците са децата на света
със „ Защо?”
Деца, забравили приказките.
Забравили
Ханс Кр.Андерсен и
„Славеят”.
Как да ви обясня,о, императори,
сълзите,
белите рози,
утрото.
Как?



Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved
875 · Jun 2011
Life Is Splendid
Life Is Splendid

Out of this word was born
time – rainbows of clouds
or of fern.
And laughter or sadness rings –
shining mornings or dusk
of the peaks so high.
The life repeats itself
inevitable and like a death, -
after the pyre – dust,
and then a flower.
And how many others
will speak to the stars,
with blazing hands will look for
some signs. And we, dear,
will be the splashes
of that sea boundless,
that always
loves.

Life is splendid!
868 · Jun 2011
***(to hold your hands)
my friend JP  , thanks for the wonderful dialogue

to hold your hands
it does not matter
to look at your eyes
it does not matter
long feathers destroy the horizon
(children burn in light)
oh, captain! my captain!
the dead poets breath
in the roots of
primrose


*(да държа ръцете ти)

да държа ръцете ти
няма значение
да гледам в очите ти
няма значение
дълги пера рушат хоризонта
(децата изгарят в светлина)
о, капитане! мой капитане!
мъртвите поети дишат
в корените на
иглика


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved
859 · Jun 2011
to wait for you to come
i love you
and i want you to be here
what will the Tuareg do
without the desert
that furrows
behind a dark burnous
his thigh – his
pinched by the caresses
of the vulture
what will he do
without the fragrance of the date palm
even of one of them
grain for growing

a Lightning split the sand

just opened up like rain in my handfuls
and like a vestige of tomorrow’s wind
in my eyes
stared at somewhere
after the reflection of the olives
in the oranges of South
with my breath
forgotten
in the caves under water
like the sea drum
of the ancient Old man
who lost his heart

of sorrow die only the waves of the sand
with the white sea foam
a scream of a seagull
a moan of the boat
i stay deep
like the sea orchid
among the yellow radiance

to wait for you to come


да те дочакам

обичам теб
и искам да си тук
какво ще прави туарегът
без пустинята
която не бразди
зад тъмен бурнус
бедрото му - неговото
изпито от ласките
на лешояда
какво ще прави
без уханието на фурмите
дори на едната
зърно за поникване

Светкавица разцепи пясъка

просто разтвори се като дъжд в шепите ми
и като отсенка на утрешен вятър
в очите ми
загледана някъде
зад проблясъка на маслините
във портокалите южни
с дъха ми
забравен
в пещерите подводни
подобно морският тъпан
на древния Старец
който изгуби сърцето си

от мъка умират само вълните на пясъка
с бялата пяна
крясък на чайка
на лодката стон
оставам дълбоко
като орхидеята морска
сред жълто сияние

да те дочакам



Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved
858 · Nov 2010
The Ball of the Masks
Gulls are flying down
and alighting on palms rude
by the net of the days.
Where’s the gondola arched?
At the ball of the masks of nephrites
the song of the sea is lost,
the call of the falcon,
couch of roses.
Ah, how he used to dream somewhere
in the tinted by autumn
wave
under the bridges
of a stone forgotten
to find the coiled up
in a prayer
soul.

The masks were choking him …  


The original:


Балът на маските

Чайки политат надолу
кацат по дланите груби
от мрежа на дните.
Къде е гондолата витa?
В бала на маски нефритови
загуби се песента на морето,
зовът на сокола,
ложе от рози.
Ах, как мечтаеше някъде
в обагрената от есен
вълна
под мостовете
на камък забравен
да намери свитата на кълбо
в молитва
душа.

Маските го душаха…


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
852 · Dec 2010
A letter
I’m writing a letter to you.
It’s in a maze. Like me.
Surely you’ve seen the Perseids.
Above the sea.
It’s the same with the words,
which I’m writing or have written.
I don’t remember.
And they are always another.
Not those ones which I’d like to say.
Or I’ve said?
I don’t remember.
I’ve abandoned the thought
like a traveler who is walking
to a harbor.
The ships depart there.
Further and further.
Further …
May I see you,
how you’re walking along the little cobble
street,
which I haven’t passed in,
to meet you and to tell you
the love is one.
I don’t remember if I said this to you.
In fact, I don’t know if it’s where
one should pass through to somewhere.
I don’t know if you’ve seen
The Perseids and the sea.
I don’t remember.
If I write anything else
but one –
one.
I don’t remember.

The original:

Писмо

Пиша ти писмо.
То е объркано. Като мен.
Сигурно си виждала Персеидите.
Над морето.
Така е и с думите,
които ти пиша или съм писал.
Не помня.
И все са други.
Не тези, които бих искал да кажа.
Или съм казал?
Не помня.
Изоставил съм мисълта
като пътник, който върви
към пристанище.
Корабите от там тръгват.
Все по-далече.
По-далече…
Дано да те виждам,
как вървиш по-малките калдъръмени улички,
по които не съм минавал,
за да те срещна и да ти кажа,
че любовта е една.
Не помня, дали ти го казах.
Всъщност, не знам дали от там
се минава, за някъде.
Не знам, дали си виждала
Персеидите и морето.
Не помня.
Пиша ли нещо друго,
освен едно -
една.
Не помня.


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
844 · Dec 2010
the girl who collects
the girl who collects

umbrellas and
sand of the dune
collects
wings of the sea

the girl collects
wings

The original:

момичето което събира

момичето което събира

чадъри и
пясък на дюните
събира
криле на морето

момичето събира
криле

The original of the poem is in Bulgarian and has been translated and adapted in English by Vessislava Savova.
836 · May 2015
Antique Cycle-2
Hear

Bozhidar Pangelov&Vania; Konstantinova/In Memoriam/

Under the Coat of Arms

In Malta, in the ancient walls
is beating the sea so salty.
Somewhere behind,
distant,
hidden
are shining through southern almonds.
There is no moon.
The light is illuming
herself
in the pearl of your eyes.
Harmonious.
Without gunshots
of the squadrons by Lepanto.
The falcons on the coat of arms fall asleep,
never wanted,
in honor
and dignity.

Vania Konstantinova

Behind the Gates

Behind the gates
of Mdina I hide you,
far of any nemesis,
of foam and stretched sails.
Behind the towers of the castle.
In the most inner yard.
Under the spurts of the cascade,
more precious than silver.
Here they see only
the eyes of the peacocks,
whisked their tails
for cooling.
Keepers of the secret
with their tongues wrested.
And when your brush sculptures
the bracelet around my ankle,
reflected in Venetian mirror
like a trap –
I forget who you are and the sin
with head chopped off,
I forget about the death …



Vania Konstantinova was born, in Sofia. She graduated Classical Ballet in
her native town and in Petersburg as well as Polish Philology in Sofia University and
Jagiellonian University, Krakow. She's co-author of the poetic book Four Cycles (along
with Bozhidar Pangelov). Her collection of short stories Thank You Mister One is published
in autumn of 2008. Death 2015
http://www.public-republic.com/vania-konstantinova
Vania Konstantinova was born, in Sofia. She graduated Classical Ballet in
her native town and in Petersburg as well as Polish Philology in Sofia University and
Jagiellonian University, Krakow. She's co-author of the poetic book Four Cycles (along
with Bozhidar Pangelov). Her collection of short stories Thank You Mister One is published
in autumn of 2008. Death 2015
http://www.public-republic.com/vania-konstantinova
831 · Jun 2011
Arriva
We do not know each other.
The fog is carving the ghostly
silhouettes of houses, people
and hopes.
And like a sound the hand is –
a semitone of the scream
of seagulls “Arriva … Arriva”
Nothing is coming.
Nothing has come.
I am trying to breathe –
in a time beyond.
In the gardens of the cascades
before the dawn and after the rain.
We do not know each other.
You’ve melted in the sun,
a sun in the fog
and you’ve never been here.
The paper remembers some passed
sounds come from the outer
world – Arriva.

In our eyes we are burning.
the girl
with an umbrella of roses
stops so suddenly
at the nook

the sea and the infinity

she waits
for the morning wind
(to fly off)
love
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