The body of summer
beneath the January frost I imagine
the slender body of summer –
swinging skinny shoulders, flirting
squeezing nimbly out of night`s paws
rolling cranberry laughter down the green pastures of June
travelling far with twilight conversations – ships
that break the ice in the wedged chalice of July
dim-eyed is August – a wasp blended forever
with the flesh of the fig
lists, they say, are a deficiency, a no-good shortcoming
in a poem’s body
just as lilacs are but a dream
in the grove-like bosom
of expectation
Translated by Hristo Dimitrov
Edited by Tom Phillips
kairos
the langorous day is fading away
houses take their tenants home
while you still search for the cata-
strophe from which
the moons of this poem would pour out
the tongue would gush in torrents
through the trough made of scars
let it splash down the torso of
pastpresentfuture
and thicken into the nectar of silence
the houses have already engulfed their tenants
and you, will you happen at all
wthout a cata-
strophe
Translated by Hristo Dimitrov
Edited by Tom Phillips
А rough story with a bee
She embraces all her controversies.
Calls them by name, hates them.
Suffers from a lack of integrity when she can’t recall
some of their names.
She wants to rip them out of her CV, she’s proud of them.
She remembers that summer when she had no job,
but she had herself, all the streets, all the hours, Spanish lessons
and long conversations with people with forgotten faces;
all afternoon doubts, cafes and summer drizzle.
Unraveling impossible scenarios in her mind,
feeling frozen in uncertainty.
She remembers that story with a bee, after which every encounter with bees looks like an
omen; a kind of deliberate synchronicity –
honeyed, as much as paralyzing.
The bee – curled up on the front doorstep;
a mute hairy ball fighting for its life
or preparing for attack.
What are you, hairy controversy?
What have you come for? What do you want from me?
They stared at each other for an hour, each with her sting pointing inward.
They didn’t find a common language: no honey in fear’s tongue.
She remembers – she was in love with the bee
when the hairy controversy
was completely still.
Translated by Elitza Yakimov
Edited by Tom Phillips
the myth of Sisyphus II
a poet
was rolling a fig
down the slope of the summer
god did not send him
the perfect line
Translated by Elitza Yakimov
Edited by Tom Phillips
the myth of Sisyphus I
a poet
was rolling words
up the slope of the sky
god did not send him
the perfect line
Translated by Elitza Yakimov
Edited by Tom Phillips
mom,
i write to you at night, when
silence is merciless
to words
the door between death and
now is open the memories – full moons of
tired phosphorus
support the firmament
of the unspoken
one day i will
write you the best
poem where
we‘d have
a future
tense
the words won’t be flowers upon your grave
and the door behind us
will close
but not now,
mom,
Translated by Elitza Yakimov
Edited by Tom Phillips