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I wonder what present, what future
to predict to you, me
to you, with hands of leaves,
with thoughts, lost into the torn
canvas of someone else’s
words,
with a gait of a wave…
A silence buries the hours
and the alders remain
candles.
Yes, the homes are
never enough.
And there’s none whom
to pray to among the dry
flowers speechless
but unique.
And may the wind
spin you
through clefts of granite.
With all my tenderness –
into fall of the leaves.

The original:




* (какво ли)

Какво ли настояще, какво ли бъдеще
да ти предскажа аз,
на теб, с ръце от листи,
със мислите, изгубени в раздраното
платно от чужди
думи,
с походка на вълна ...
Мълчание засипва часовете
и елшите остават
свещи.
Да, домовете никога
не са достатъчни.
И няма на кого
да се помоля сред сухите
цветя безмълвни,
но единствени.
Но нека вятърът да те
върти
през процепи гранитни.
Със цялата ми нежност –
в листопада.

Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
i won’t come back

and the shadow of the horse does not
slide behind the soft clock
chtuck* here
chtuck here
i won’t come back

yes mem
in the air is spread
a sound and silence
and the built stays much

i won’t come back
for digging
the mall is digs
digging for a worm

i won’t come back
please

* an author’s unique approach to resemble the clatter of hoofs

аз няма да се върна

и сянката на коня не се
приплъзва зад мекия часовник
чтък тук
чтък тук
аз няма да се върна

да госпожо
във въздуха се разпилява
звук и тишина
и построеното остава много

аз няма да се върна
за да ровя
къртица рие
рови червей

аз няма да се върна
моля



Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved
I write –
on autumn leaves,
when the sun is
alive
The grass
is still
fragrant.
And you are a dream which
I won’t
tell about.
My eyes are collecting colorful rains.
As in the mad years,
when
I ran with a cloth
to bandage the light.
The wings have left
and the golden sparkles which
you are writing with today,
without even knowing…

A shed
feather of Fujiyama .
Paul Celan dedicated to

Jordan

It flows, the river flows
and spills...
I won't, I won't
enter,
girl,
with hair of sea.
I won't
enter,
girl,
with a face of moons.
Today the green people
enter there
and raise
their hands
heavy.
My heart is
carved into
sand.
Sand.

Bury it.

The original:

Йордан

Тече, тече реката
и се разлива...
Няма, няма да
вляза,
момиче,
с коси от море.
Няма да
вляза,
момиче,
с лице от луни.
Днес там влизат
зелените хора
и вдигат
ръцете си,
тежки.
Сърцето ми е
вдълбано
в пясък.
Пясък.

Зарови го.

Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Put your fingers into kalihi,
Kalihta.

There is nothing there.
But it is so beautiful.
Your fingers – kalihi…
A fresco.
It remained of Κνωσσός
in a boundless sea.

And my eyes.

a kind of an oblong goblet of
Late Minoan epoch
Knossos – a great archaeological site in Greece
land

what shall I tell them

it hurts me
for the ones
and for the others
(for you
and for you
for all of you)
who have land
who have no land
who look for land
red
red
red

what shall I tell them


земя

какво да кажа

какво да им кажа
боли ме
за едните
за другите
(за теб
и теб
за вас)
които имат земя
които нямат земя
които търсят земя
червена
червена
червена

какво да им кажа


земля


что сказать
что им сказать
больно
для одних
для других
(для тебя
и тебя
для вас)
которые имеют землю
которые не имеют землю
которые ищут землю
красная
красная
красная

что им сказать
The tongue slips
over the grayish-blue
edge
of a Catalonian knife.
Salt.
Tambours bang.
Me or him.
The dark dance starts.
A step
… a jump.
The night –
an award for death.
A red dress –
survival.
Curse eternal –
Carmen.
Corrida – ever.
The knife stabs in the back
and the crowd cries
'More'.
Breath, breath – the edge
squeals…

*‘Ultimo! (Spanish)


The original:

Последно

Езикът се приплъзва
по сиво-синкавия
ръб
на каталунски нож.
Сол.
Дайретата блъскат.
Аз или той.
Тъмният танц е започнал.
Крачка
…скок.
Нощта -
награда за мъртвия.
За оцелелия –
червената рокля.
Проклятие вечно –
Кармен.
Вечна – коридата.
Ножът, забит във гърба
и тълпата, ревяща
„Още!”.
Дъх, дъх –острието
пищи…

‘Ultimo!(исп.)

-------------------------------
­Bulgarian Poetry
"Go to the pine if you want to learn about pine"
Matsuo Bashō

How long is falling the autumn
leaf
torn of the too long
summer.
And in the high pines
with their bodies defending
the sky against
the earth
the steel edge of the winter
is breaking in two.
Both you
and me
toss both
the time and
the wind
in pines propped up
back to
back.

And the pines recognized us.
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!
And how awkward
the tree is
with the dried roots
on that day
of birds
and grasses
and laughter

and the sun is somehow
ridiculous
like the moss green
sprung
on its white skin
hit
in winter
by a thunder

and how slender the birch is
sunken into white self-contemplation

to them a pigeon is stepping
(like a fortuity)

The original:

като случайност

И как неловко е
дървото
с изсъхналите клони
във този ден
на птици
и треви
и смях

И слънцето е някак си
нелепо
като мъха зелен
поникнал
в бялата му кожа
ударена
през зимата
от гръм

А колко стройна е брезата
потънала във бяло самосъзерцание

Към тях пристъпя гълъб
( като случайност)


The original of the poem is in Bulgarian and has been translated and adapted in English by Vessislava Savova.
Missolonghi
In English, the Greek Kalinihita (?a?????ta means Good Night

I won't be by you,
Kalinihita,
the lines of your palm.
I'm too heavy, my girl,
and you - a light one.
Let you pass smoothly
through all the doors
on the shoulders of everybody
let you step.
Like a sound of a love
romance
to pass by.
I'm heavy, heavy, my girl
and my shadow is white.
And you can see
chromatic
and to croon you can
only to the wind.
Where shall I stay
without disturbing.
Your dream.



In English, the Greek Kalinihita (?a?????ta means Good Night
Missolonghi

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lord_Byron
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
just a little bit more
quite
a scrawling
of the senses
or a Raven
to come
before the final
rain

gracefully

till the end
did Annabel Lee
stay till the end
there’s no portent here
destiny
or a sign

self-made

it’s till the end
art
truth
without seeing

but the Raven
looked sorrowfully
croaked something
and jumped into my eyes

“Nevermore”
(out of Heaven)

The original:

Nevermоre

още малко
съвсем
едно драсване
на сетивата
или един Гарван
да дойде
преди крайният
дъжд

изящно

докрай
докрай ли остана
Анна Бел – Ли
тук няма знамение
съдба
или знак

самоиздигане

до край е
изкуство
истина
без да се виждаш

но Гарванът
жално погледна
изграчи си нещо
и скочи в очите ми

“Nevermоre”
( извън Рая)

*Translator bulgarian-english: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
Long are the streets
and go somewhere
not like your
fingers
tenderly
in my hand

and no matter it rains
no matter it does.
because
the pigeon is only
bird there
where i will not go
they are going to speak to it
with other words
and gift
with other testament
before to
drive them away


други

понеже
гълъбът е само
птица там
където няма да отида
ще му говорят
с други думи
и ще дарят
със друг завéт
преди да ги
изгонят
----------

Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved
Our love isn’t at ease,
just like the wind in white acacias
and like a bead on child’s hand,
it’s not at ease.
In it they miss – wonderlands,
delights, flame and solace.
And none of us will call it my own
before it passes us on slightly.
And it will stay somewhere – far away,
unapproachable, uneasy.
And yellow leaves will whisper in snows.

Our love isn’t at ease.
It isn’t at ease.

The original:

*
Не е спокойна нашата любов,
тъй както вятър в белите акации
и като мънисто на ръката на дете,
не е спокойна.
Във нея няма чудни светове,
възторзи, пламък и утеха.
И никой своя няма да я назове
преди да ни отмине леко.
И ще остане някъде – далечна,
непостижима, неудобна.
И жълтите листа ще шепнат в снегове.

Не е спокойна нашата любов.
Не е спокойна.


*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…"
“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.

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
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.
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.
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
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
and on that day of sun
the leaves of the chestnut
like arms are shielding
by
the gleeds
and I am seeing through the dream
like through some mirrors
the garden with boats
cranes
and
tones
far steps of the see
and beauty
that is killing me



Тишина


и в този ден на слънце
листите на кестена
като ръце закрилят
от
жарта
и виждам през съня
като през огледала
градината със лодки
жерави
и звуци
далечни стъпки на морето
и красота
която ме
убива



Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved
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
If I call
who of the angels
would hear me.
Whether one of them suddenly
would open up his heart.

The Big Shore
K. White



Like the grass called by the edge
of the scythe,
with a face, fixed into the black soil,
with lungs full of mud
and wind…
When I do not have cry.
Who of the angels
would hear me.
When I am an echo in the mountain
and my strength is a reflection
of some evening snow.
Whether one of them suddenly
would reveal his heart.
For that one who abandoned
his one
for a spring
in the desert.
He gave away his eyes to
the jackals,
and his fingers to the vultures.
And that one who has nothing for
giving away…

He gives away the Heaven.
love
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.
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.
The girl, who fresh
like a germ among the dark olives,
is waving slightly for hello,
is opening up.
You cannot guess
the color of her delicate garment,
the laughter of the wind touching
her tender skin.

A yellow bee is whirring …

Lending an ear above waters of
your voice
and forgotten
my heart of
an old robber,
I tuck in hollows of my hands –
a drop.

And I am trying
not to shiver.
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
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
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.
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.
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.
The man who sits at the edge
of the water
shares the bread
(for you and to the birds).
Familiar with the dream far ago.
He can count when
the lime blossoms crumble
(someone passes to some place
and love is the longest point).
Entire.

Then (i look) it is
maestoso.
The man who collects
evening clocks
has no idea about time.
When some rain.
Yesterday.
Today.
Tomorrow.
(says in surprise)
When you look
and your finger points
somewhere behind the eyes.
“Everything flows and
flows out.”

And the old houses are opening
small umbrellas.


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

Човекът, който събира

Човекът, който събира
вечерни часовници,
няма идея за време.
Когато дъжд.
Вчера.
Днес.
Утре.
(казва учудено)
Когато гледаш
и пръста ти сочи
някъде зад очите.
"Всичко тече и
се изтича."

И старите къщи отварят
малки чадъри.
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!
The night is flexible
the quiet willow
over a lake

traveling

somewhere.
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.
So the time
just like a river
lowers each waterside
from a higher
to a small one
or from colorful
to horizon.
Yes.
So the time.

The children,
each fall
the yellow leaves
they gather.

"The Man Who…" 2009

The original:

Сезонът, който не съществуваше

Тъй времето,
подобно на река,
снишава всеки бряг
от по-висок
към малък,
или от цветен
в хоризонт.
Да.
Тъй времето.

Децата,
всяка есен
жълтите листа
събират.

„Човекът, който…“ 2009г.

*Translator bulgarian-english: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
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
I won’t come back
in that autumn.
With you too.
The homes with gold are pulsating
on the horizon and the sea
(in Thessaloniki the oranges even
are pulsating)
The sea?
What about it?
Everything about it has been written and
nobody has the words
to split up this what’s in it
(by the sea).
I’m sitting ahead of a long path and
understand.

A man doesn’t setting boats
of paper, but puts back to water.
Water again.

The original:

Тесалоники

Аз няма да се върна
в тази есен.
И с теб.
Пулсират домовете със златото
на хоризонта и морето
(във Тесалоники и портокалите
пулсират).
Морето?
То какво?
За него всичко е написано и
никой няма думите,
за да раздели това, което е във него
(от морето).
Седя пред дългата пътека и
разбирам.

Един човек не пуска корабчета
от хартия, а връща на водата.
Пак вода.

Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Thessaloniki (Greek: Θεσσαλονίκη, IPA: [θesaloˈnici]), Thessalonica, or Salonica is the second-largest city in Greece and the capital of the region of Macedonia. Its honorific title is Συμпρωτεύουσα (Symprotévousa), literally "co-capital", a reference to its historical status as the Συμβασιλεύουσα (Symvasilévousa) or "co-reigning" city of the Byzantine Empire, alongside Constantinople.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thessaloniki
the man who looks for the hands
(oh, that wind)
the kite less further
(ah, that wind)
the stars close
(oh, that wind)
and the truth in the hair
(the longing you’ll never find out)
and the man
and the wind

J. London

The original:

Скитник между звездите


мъжът който търси ръцете
(о, този вятър)
хвърчилото по-малко по-далечно
(ах, този вятър)
звездите близки
(ех, този вятър)
и истината ти в косите
(копнежът, който няма да узнаеш)
и мъжа
и вятъра
———————–
*Дж.Лондон

Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
“The voice of One crying in the desert speaks:
Marko, 1.3:
Isaiah, 40:3;


And here The One is coming…

A child in this winter
or in some other one
in the pound is drawing.
The water accepts everything,
forgets, washes up.
A name and a voice.
The voice leaves hunger.
Feeds up – the name.
The water everything forgets.

Carve me out of fire!

Гласът на викащия

"Гласът на викащия в пустинята говори:
Марко, 1.3:
Исаия, 40:3;



И ето Един идва...

Едно дете през тази зима
или през друга
във локвата рисува.
Водата всичко приема,
забравя, умива.
Име и глас.
Гласът оставя глад.
Засища - името.
Водата всичко забравя...

Изсечи ме от огън!


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved
I collect eyes. Burnt ones.
Of the last summer.
Arms chopped off.
By a tide of sand.
Reflections of uncollected water.
You, hunter of flowers…
Oh, wharves!
Oh, sea goings!
Winds in the sails of the white ships.
High wings.
The swelter of August swallowed you.

But today it’s September and the oval autumn.
And your voices I hear…
it’s a time of hunger
and of plague
and of starling
the grasshoppers ate up the wheat
the water has another color
can’t be drunk
the children go to someone else’s doors
knock
but they do not answer them
and speak there
behind one crooked tree
something they speak
hisss the wind
that one at least knew
that he was tested
they were staying and speaking to him
even he was seeing
people
sticking needles
under the nails
but you have arms
both left one
and right one
and wrists
and fingers
and a hole

ignite your skin
the wind is from bellow

The original:

вятърът

това е време на глад
и на мор
и на тръгване
скакалците изядоха житото
водата има друг цвят
не може да се пие
децата ходят по чужди врати
тропат
но не им отварят
а говорят там
зад едно криво дърво
нещо говорят
съъъъ вятърът
онзи поне знаеше
че го изпитват
стояха и му говореха
дори виждаше
хора
да мушкат игли
под ноктите
а ти имаш ръце
и лява
и дясна
и китки
и пръсти
и дупка

запали кожата си
вятърът е отдолу


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
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
The years pass – wings –
the valleys grow
and the picks lose the silhouette clear.
Who’s hitting furiously the horses young,
the sky who has there lit?
Not me! Not me!
Me and you, sat on a short shore
along the path, sunk in myrtles
and we’re looking at the love,
in that endless mirror.
And somewhere young girls
are singing a refrain in low voice
and giant woods are losing root.

Horses are tearing in sulphur and volcanoes.
Inside of me – the sea is murmuring.
© bogpan
--------
original:

*(минават годините)

Минават годините - крила -
нарастват долините
и върховете губят силуета ясен.
Кой удря яростно конете млади,
небето кой е там запалил?
Не аз! Не аз!
Със теб сме седнали на нисък бряг
покрай пътеката, потънала във мирти
и гледаме във любовта,
в това безкрайно огледало.
А нейде младите момичета
припяват с нисък глас
и дървеса гигантски губят корен.

Коне препускат в сяра и вулкани.
Във мен - шуми морето.

*Translator bulgarian-english: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
Ah, this love.

Like a down
of a child on the check.
Like a waft
among roots nodulous
of a hidden forest.
Leaves woken up
in Saint Martin’s summer
of the tree
waiting for the winter.
A bell aureate
of Sundays of autumn.

Tolls …


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

Тази любов...

Ах, тази любов.

Като мъх
на детето по бузата.
Като полъх
сред корени възлести
на скрита гора.
Лùста събуден
през циганско лято
на дървото
очакващо зимата.
Камбана златиста
на недели от есен.

Звъни...
Time is an idea of the over-ripe mind
The sky bent dries the earth
Did you achieve anything more than

Pain

Wreath for the eyes

Rumble

Ghostly reflection left of
“Us”
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