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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.
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
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.
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 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.
The buffalo is wading deeply
into the mud.
Ripe is the rice.

And white.
There’s almost no wind.
Sun in circles.

Rice is the door,
quietly is rustling at ajaring...
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.
I wanted just
a little bit of beauty
a feather on the edge of the bed
the light of drops
noise of leaves in hollows
I didn't dare telling you

The original:

Мъничко

исках само
мъничко красота
перо на ръба на леглото
светлината на капки
шум на листи във шепи
не посмях да ти кажа

The original of the poem is in Bulgarian and has been translated and adapted in English by Vessislava Savova.
already
my look is calm

a luxurious orange
nail
on
the table

the world is going to turn around in
- a breath
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.
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 air of
your skin is Paradise
fingers all over
my face

your words
push the blood
out of my heart

towards you
And if ever you don’t see
Exodus,
dig in the soil like a fruit
worm
and lift the stone of yourself
heavier,
to find a word
harder than Maya.

And if you ever demand for more,
dig the sky.

The original:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yErXJvOudY&feature;=playerembedded


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
The old lady has a round bonnet
(in flowers) and the nicest smile.
The overcoat is with a leather collar,
artificial, of course.
Shoes of snow.
She's moving somehow preoccupied
looking for
in deserted corridors
the cash box
(to pay for her past).
Yes, my dear Ajar.
And so the game
is over.
__________
Emile Ajar - the other pen-name of Romain Gary

The original:

И така е животът, Емил

Старицата има кръгла шапчица
(на цветя) и най-милата усмивка.
Палтото е с кожена яка,
изкуствена, разбира се.
Обувки от сняг.
Движи се някак залисано,
търси
в безлюдни коридори
касата
( да си плати миналото).
Да, драги ми Ажар.
И така играта
приключва.


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
On the path which was throwing open
in the dusk –
red leaves
amongst some trees of walnuts
a traveler is coming.
He is reaching the heart with a quiet step
resembling a babble
of a water under a root
or an open embrace,
arms of air and of a quiet dream.
A faraway evening bell.

That’s an hour which in the homes
as the children they fall asleep
by their father after a plough
and the travelers come back
with a path.

И се завръщат

По пътеката, която се разтваряше
в здрача -
червени листи
измежду дървеса от орех
пристига пътник.
Достига до сърцето с тиха крачка
подобно ромон
на вода под корен
или разтворена прегръдка,
ръце от въздух и от кротък сън.
Далечна вечерна камбана.

Това е час, във който домовете
като деца заспиват
при баща след оран
и се завръщат пътниците
със пътека.


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved
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
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.
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.
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
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
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.
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
The Earth finds support
in some springs.
But you do not pronounce
the words,
when
paths utter into me,
love of sounds splits
and the sacrament on hills
and on leaves roars.
And I summon horizons
with all my tenderness,
blaze and prayer…

Beyond the thought
that brings death.




Оттатък мисълта

Земята намира опора
във извори.
Но ти не произнасяй
думите,
когато
в мен мълвят пътеки,
любов от звукове се сплита
и тайнството на хълми,
и на листа бучи.
И хоризонти призовавам
с цялата си нежност,
пламък и молитва…

Оттатък мисълта,
която носи смърт.



Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved
The Earth finds support
in some springs.
But you do not pronounce
the words,
when
paths utter into me,
love of sounds splits
and the sacrament on hills
and on leaves roars.
And I summon horizons
with all my tenderness,
blaze and prayer…

Beyond the thought
that brings death.
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.
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

Can you
exchange
your life
for some dream?
A crystal flower …
a snowy pick.
A coal
remains from the flame
dew – from dew.
And if your home
is cracking
by the creeping
roses
so eternal is
the Wailing Wall.

The original:

*
Ти можеш ли
да размениш
живота си
за някоя мечта?
Кристално цвете ...
снежен връх.
От пламъка остава
въглен,
от роса – роса.
И ако домът ти се
пропуква
от пълзящите червени
рози,
то вечна е
Стената на плача.



Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
The night is short like a breath
and long like a cry –
a woman who hard is giving birth of
a day.
A flame, glimmered above water:
one and only,
invisible,
sacred.
Immovable star.
Nothing born in Spirit
passes away.
Neither does it repeat.
The circle is broken –
after the life, a life is coming.
There’s no death.
O, mother – give a birth!

A God’s voice over the dark:
“He was born...”

The original:


Коледно

Нощта е къса като дъх
и дълга като вик –
жена, която трудно ражда
ден.
Пламък проблеснал над вода:
единствен,
невидим,
свещен.
Неподвижна звезда.
Не отминава нищо
родено във Дух.
Не се и повтаря.
Кръговратът е счупен –
след живота идва живот.
Смърт няма.
О, майко – раждай!

Глас божи над мрака:
“ роди се…”


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Some day I will stay at that house
(rather I will be sat) that I dream of
to realize how the air was born. Then,
(now I am sleeping on my wrist)
as never before I will manage without asking
about roads and
I will
pass
on the stretched rope
between
two horizons
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
after a breathless touch
of the fibers on the skin
(with night)
the lasses are the torpid leaves
leaning happily -
(the whiteness of the birch)
with luster in the eyes
and the morn is stroking them
with the first rays of (the sun)
and chiseling the marble silhouette
with dew of (night) fingers
and into uneventful picture
of a wind and flowers and sounds
hardly they noticed

the crumbled moss of the thought

The original:

поръчково стихотворение

след трепетно докосване
на фибрите по кожата
(с нощта)
девойките са вялите листа
полегнали щастливо -
(белотата на брезата)
с блясък във очите
и утрото ги гали
с първите льчи на (слънцето)
и вае мраморния силует
с роса от (нощни) пръсти
и във безметежната картина
на вятър и цветя и звуци
едва ли забелязаха

изронения мъх на мисълта


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
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
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.
The homes are opening up in the mist
like grief of figures
with eyes, opened up to the sea tract.
The walls are crumbling, to this evening
groaning with strength.
Who is shouting there?
Who is building fire on the shore?
The oars were dying of the sweat.
The sails were torn by the winds
dead.
Did they bring ebony and silk,
myrrh and emeralds from Lepanto?
They remained with ashes of the sea,
with corns,
with grief, resembling anchor.
On winding, light-footed caravels
captains are shouting on the deserted shore
and building
Epiphany sacrificial fires.

The original:


Богоявление

Разтварят се в мъглата домовете
подобно скръб на фигури
с очи, разтворени към морска шир.
Изронват се стени, до тази вечер
стенещи от якост.
Кой вика там?
Кой огън пали на брега?
Умираха веслата от потта.
Платната се накъсаха от ветрове
насрещни.
Донесоха ли абанос и свила,
смирна и смарагди от Лепанто?
Останаха със морска прах,
с мазоли,
със скръб, подобно котва.
На вити, леконоги каравели
капитани викат на брега безлюден
и палят
Богоявленски жертвени огньове.

Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Leave these ships with the big
white sails that hardly are wobbling.
Leave this cry of the gulls full of
alarming
longing – let the lungs swallow the wind
coming.
Leave the eyes, let them travel beyond
the horizons –
falling leaves.
And find that angle of the time – of
love
when “here and there doesn’t
matter”
and that grief which hollows out the air
becomes the jump,
becomes wing beat,
the water deep in the tank,
the entire while of moving unmovable.
Flags!

T.C. Elliot

original

http://vbox7.com/play:b2927115
for
for
august is over burnt
from rains and
shadows

the grass is low
only for
the blind cricket
fallen tree
in closed water

sunbeam
extract white spell
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
He
He
On a slop I’ve put
the soul …
L. A. Seneca

He has nothing
in the left,
but a fraction of
a nut.
And has no
other reflections.
And double voice.

He’s happy!

Let
the right one burn
(like Scevola).
To have
of the land
(of Fabricius).
And dry saliva –
for your face,
Old Wife.

Before
The Light
bends him.

The original:

Той

На склон съм поставил
душата ...
Л.А.Сенека

Той няма нищо
в лявата,
освен частица
орех.
И няма
други отражения.
И двоен глас.

Щастлив е !

Нека
да изгаря дясната
(като на Сцевола).
Да има
от земята
(на Фабриций).
И суха плюнка -
за лицето ти,
Старице.

Преди
да го огъне
Светлината.


*Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
In spring slightly occurs
the white blast.
And the night bells shake
the silence.
Unquenchable is this waft
of the candles in the hands sincere,
the lips are touching up the sermon:
“He rose!”
And
The Light is making the leap –
easy and warm.
The Light – the breathing
of the skin of Life.
The Light – forgotten rhythm
ready to stop.

The Light –
“He rose!”
This house is
so quiet
(as every single house).
In the morning - with a color.
And the night - with semitones.
I'll love you - it says - in this
town.
With the benches of those in love,
with the poplars in May.,
with the rains.
I'll love you - it says.
And life goes on.

The original:

Къща

Тази къща е
тъй тиха
(като всяка къща).
В утрото – със цвят.
И вечерта – със полутонове.
Ще те обичам – казва – в този
град.
Със пейките на влюбените,
с тополите през май,
със дъждовете.
Ще те обичам – казва.
Животът продължава.


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
i am dreaming
but someone is laying bricks
around my dream
wells
he is rising houses
drawing roads and people
unfolding some wind
above plane-trees
and above hills rounded

and bridges
to other dreams
Like a nest on a little church
indented in the rocks.
The sky is low.
The twitch
of the air flower-beds –
the passing angels.
And voices like gushing
streams; rivers before the sea.
The day is silent.
The body is growing up –
some birds are thronging.


Отпускам се…


Като гнездо на църквицата
врязана в скалите.
Небето ниско.
Потрепването
на въздушните лехи -
минаващите ангели.
И гласове като шуртящи
ручеи; реки преди морето.
Денят мълчи.
Нараства тялото -
прииждат птици …


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved
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.
Sometimes
the night is soft.

A dream of children.
They say: "An Angel has touched them"

I'm sitting and looking at you. I don't count
the daily stones.
I forget about those
who in the morning
with brushes sharpen
the teeth - white ones
(they're looking for death).
I forgot about those
who in the morning
with soap wash
the hands - the white ones
(they're looking for death).
I forgot about those
who in the morning
with ink recurve
the eyes - the serene ones.
(they're looking for death).

Oh, my daughter!
The night is soft.

The original:

Седя и те гледам

Понякога
нощта е мека.

Сън на деца.
Казват: „ Докоснал ги Ангел”

Седя и те гледам. Не броя
дневните камъни.
Забравям за тези,
които в утрото
със четки изострят
зъбите –белите
( те търсят смърт).
Забравям за тези,
които в утрото
със сапуни умиват
ръцете – нощните
( те търсят смърт).
Забравям за тези,
които в утрото
със тушове извиват
очите – ясните
( те търсят смърт).

О, дъще моя!
Мека е нощта.

*Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
I’m sinking.
At that night the grass
is embracing me velvety.
And it seems to me unreal
that I’m an island sprung
in milky ways.
Yes.
That night I’m spilling
with the tide.
And the joys of directions
into the worlds are fusing
in a kernel.
I’m breathing uniformly and deeply
under the arch of your arm
and a cradle.

The original:

Във тънка мрежа на звездите

се отпускам.
През тази нощ тревата
ме обгръща кадифено.
И нереално ми се струва,
че съм поникнал остров
в млечни пътища.
Да.
Тази нощ разливам се
със прилива.
И радостите на посоките
във световете сливат се
в ядро.
Дишам равномерно и дълбоко
под арка на ръката ти и
люлка.

*Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
This is Love.
Words
(with no caress).
Caress
(with no fingers).

Surely because of that
the worlds dangle on your ears.
It is silent like a prayer.
All the words are lost
and so are all the roads,
which lead to nowhere.
My arm is folding yours
as if an impossibility.
And softly the night is coming.

Тихо е като молитва

Тихо е като молитва.
Изгубени са всички думи
и всички пътища,
които някъде отвеждат.
Ръката ми обгръща твоята
тъй както невъзможност.
И меко идва вечер.


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved
or I was born such
(or probably both)
between the sea to stay
more left of the light
(the less of the two).
I tried
the words not to hurt,
but not to rejoice excessively.
To move
without moving away
(the cross-sail of sailing craft).
To be a dream for someone dreamt up.
You can't stay
between the sea and
sea.
©2009, bogpan
--------
original:

Опитах се

Опитах се
или така съм се родил,
(а може би и двете),
между морето да застана,
от светлината по-наляво
(в по-малката от двете).
Опитах се
от думите да не боли,
но да не радват извънмерно.
Да се движа
без да се премествам
(напречното платно на ветроход).
Да бъда сън за някой досънуван.
Не можеш да останеш
между морето и
море.
©2009, bogpan

*Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
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