Blesok no. 29, November-December, 2002
Poetry


Kind of end
Translated by: Biliana Kourtasheva

Georgi Gospodinov



The Ritual


Listen to what that man said
while waiting at the counter

He who came to know everything
is always dressed in black
I don’t drink I commemorate myself
every second you know
such and such number of cells
burst into our brains
every minute dead men
every day funerals
rain and mud drunk gravediggers
I am not a priest but I ought
to be a priest of myself
to wail upon my own death
to be gravedigger and graveyard
fortinbrass of my own body
I don’t drink any more
I commemorate myself

after all we owe ourselves the ritual




News


She closes the paper and says:
have you read, a hailstorm in Iowa
pieces were as big as golfballs
Well, he says, it is because
they play too much golf overthere
and they had lost too many balls
now all of them are coming back
He sends them back all their balls
do you follow, He, the Joker
But she doesn’t lough at all
she turns away and says in terror:

He never misses.




Girl


Is there anybody going to listen to my story…

You are lying with the girl
That was lying with her boy
That was lying with the girl
That was lying with her boy
That was lying with the girl

You lie down make yourself united

The universe is in your bed
What a society in one girl




* * *


            Which is first – the egg or the hen?
            The answer is: the name that is absent.

                              Gaustin

In the beginning
the hen and the egg
sit in silence
facing one another
not knowing
who should first
say the word
(or the word does not exist
or the word is still unknown)
so they keep sitting dumb
and nobody
says
Mum




Kind of end


red ant is running on the stonewall

should I begin about the village afternoon
and then go on about the haze
than raise the timbre stop
and put some sunsets watermelons
now should I say about the morbid
ripening into the pear
about the summer made in ketchup
about the barn-owl and so on

red ant is running on the stonewall
nothing else




The Paternal Roof


A cat
upon the white fence with turkish tiles.
Apples
burned by the sunset and instantly ripe.
Thorns
beside the stone wall – bearded dead men.
Dusk
has forsed the doors and lain down the rooms.
A grass-snake,
as an old host, slips away beneath the treshold
inviting me
        inside
           with my father's
                    eyes.


Translated by  Biliana Kourtasheva, Plamen Arnaudov




Odeon


we will also freeze some day
like the cup of tea is freezing
forgotten on the back veranda
like calas falling in the mud
like orchids on obsolete tapestries
we will also fade away some day
but not so gracefully not so
and in some other movies




__________________________________________________________
created by