We fell asleep uncovered,
with our clothes on
and it commenced to snow
frozen long ago,
or were these blown by the typhoon,
or were these drops
ripped harshly from the Ocean
or that’s the dew of the Taiga,
or that’s that iceberg lonesome
whose melting slipped away
to everyone’s neglect
one sunny Monday
soaking up the salt of the Atlantic,
that skipped and hopped
onboard of Cutty Sark,
(that must have been so frantic)
then blown away in the monsoon,
washing thousands of souls at Ganges
putting thousands of fires out,
firing up throats in barley dances,
melting forest footpaths into mud,
transforming mud to stout bricks…
And we were fast asleep,
to the tears of the snow.
When naughty mice — I think a pair —
recklessly conspire to rob me of my sleep
under the cobwebs of the wooden attic
engaged in wicked games (how fair!)
with what sounds like a mouldy walnut,
making mind-numbing noise, now soft, now deep,
and I’m guessing — sporting summer hair,
stomping like evil elephants
flaunting enviable stamina,
revelling in the coolness of the night
completely heedless of the little chaos
they produce nowhere else but in my mind…
I know it’s summer, crisp and bright.
Instead of feeling worn, I wonder,
if those mean mice enjoyed
but I wasn’t there (a silly blunder)
did they still make any noise?
I lost myself in the Norwegian wood
I thought it was just weathered, bald and bristled…
And I believed that for a day or two
okay, then, let it be a month,
I’ll come to grips with it, will solve it,
and will get used to the Norwegian thorny trees.
however, the Norwegian wood, turned out savage…
I found myself in the Norwegian wood
some time past midnight
(one needs no watch – it’s constant darkness anyway)
the Moon was shining in a slumberous mode
the birds, long gone to lustful South,
had left their empty nests,
a few feathers on guard…
the wild Norwegian wood now gave a sigh…
I got absorbed in the Norwegian wood
my sweat cast frosty glances at the landscape
scratched all over long ago,
clutched at roots
got fresh lines
as if my fate was changing
right under my nose
holes wide open, gaped,
the night resounded
the streams stopped short
I fell, and rose,
and it was then,
when day and night merged into one
the sky collapsed
refilled the wood
and all night long the trees dreamt summer.
На български език / Bulgarian version
How is one to write a single poem
when on the sheets of paper slowly crawl
midges, giggling and bearing teeth?!
This sheet for them is just a desert island
for me it’s pure bait for rhymes.
Why should they snarl at my writings,
when God made up his mind to have them
Leaving an open bottle of wine,
they cannot care less for rhyming
and breathe out winy stains along the lines,
tiny legs plant winy spots, no whining…
The trunks of trees cut down sighed,
because for characters
they crossed the whole wide world.
Read in Bulgarian / На български
Come on, dad, get up!
In your den
even the time has dozed off.
We’ve made the jam.
Mum’s waiting for you,
brewed your chamomile tea…
for your nerves.
It’s time to
what you’ve sown
Come on, dad, up you get,
mum’s waiting for you
with your favourite plum spread.
Your daughter will be all right.
But mum’s waiting for you
with chestnuts freshly baked!
I see an ugly picture on the wall
of my memories. I cannot draw it
any more. Petals of burnt flowers
dance in a film of dust. Shark’s jaws
bite me… the match-box-size pleasure
of the wine I drank. Cigarette smoke
penetrates my body, before
the Flood… of lively lies.
But here they are! white
clouds envelop my room belonging
to the future… or past
Dressed in dust. Devastating desire
to taste the red eyes of night and lust
and to die. For I don’t mean eternity.
My fingers are glued
with mud. I can’t touch the air,
but here it is my mountain
that will mother me.
all lack of space is not here.
My prison disappears
in this rainy place.
But what if the smog
tries to devour my flowers
and make their heads droop?
I’ll become a slave
caught tightly in the fist of
this dressed truth of theirs.