Blesok no. 99, November-December, 2014
Poetry


Тransformation

Vladislav Hristov



transformation


the river will run in another direction
the fishermen with their boats will come next
and further on the drowning men with the floats:
in that sunday afternoon
some two are walking embraced on the shore
not knowing of any consequences




the room


people set off in a silence
and the room remained barren
but later again they pricked in
shouts and trumpets
the tears sucked into the ground
the laughter amid the bricks
and afterwards the room
again barren
the janitor entering boldly
with bucket and clout
‘cos she thinks it ain’t right
a dead man to be brought
in a dirty room




an eve with an umbrella


wait for me there
to keep the place dry
it’s a mound for a many-a-men
and water should not soak in:
bones will swell up
the legs will move on
the hands will grab
and just like that could
drag you down
in the mound




a nest in the attic


come back alone without the dog
and other conventions
this home now deprived of all noises
the walls tumble down
there’s not many space for the body
soon it will lessen
a nest in the attic
to live anew
like a swallow
may be you have never expected
that this may happen
to a beloved woman




the southern park


the kicking of the leaves in the park
is a lingering childhood ritual
now i do it solely
when i am quite sad:
i go to the park
and kick kick kick
the damn leaves
and then it all lightens
except for the pain in the tendon
staying to spend the night with me
like a true sentry




johnny walker


in a few drinks
his head heads for the floor
to feel that hardness
felt way back
in the childhood
at pressing his forehead
against the dim window




how the autumn arrives


a girl is gathering flowers
and by an error she picks up the summer




topographies


on the map i mark it
with pins
she has bred
like my fears
of not finding her




silences and noises


the elevator with a woman
first night of the baby,
last— of the deceased
always someone who cough




weather forecast


yours dress of blue flowers:
so many bees
in February




gathering


rats gnaw the dusk
for the sunrays
to enter
she’s not coming back in the room
wait for her somewhere else
some dry spot or a shelter
for your eyes to meet
for your hands to wind up
like snakes in the shade
of a tombstone




Crusoe's living room


our silence
splits the room in half
each of us lives
in his own part
rife with cannibals and wild goats
………………..

Translated by: Nikolay Todorov




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