Чу Юан / Qū Yuán

Чу Юан (339 пр. н. е. – 278 пр. н. е.) е първият известен лирически поет в историята на Китай от епохата на Воюващите царства. Неговият образ се е превърнал в един от символите на патриотизма в китайската култура.

Историческите подробности за живота на Чу Юан са оскъдни и авторството на много от стихотворенията, приписвани на него, е отдавна и широко оспорвано. Но почти единодушно се признава авторството му на „Ли Сао”, най-известното негово стихотворение, както и на още няколко от стихотворенията в сборника, приписван нему. Първото известно споменаване на Чу Юан се появява в едно стихотворение, написано през 174 пр.н.е. от Джя Йи, чиновник от Луоянг, който бил оклеветен от завистливи колеги и заточен в Чангша от император Уен от династията Хан. Докато пътувал, той написал стихотворение, описващо подобната на неговата съдба на някой си, живял преди него, Чу Юан.

Денят на ритуалното самоубийство на Чу Юан (Денят Дуан-у по източния календар) е празник, наречен Празник на драконовите лодки.

Като потомък на аристократически род, Чу Юан служил като министър при двора на царската династия Чу. Той се обявил против хегемонията на Цин. Според преданието, Чу Юан бил оклеветен от свой съперник министър, който имал силно влияние върху управляващия Чу – Цин-сян-вана (298–263).

Поради неговата безкомпромисност, Чу Юан бил изгнан от столицата, след което се посветил на събирането на народни легенди. На склона на хълма в с. Шянлупин, областта Дзигуй, провинция, Хубей, и до днес показват кладенеца, в който той често надничал.

През 278 пр. н. е. столицата Чу била превзета от цинския военачалник Бай Чи. Когато узнал за това, Чу Юан сътворил поемата „Жалба за столицата Ин” и се самоубил като се хвърлил във водите на р. Мило, в днешната провинция Хунан.

Източници:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qu_Yuan

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dragon_boat

Публикуваното тук стихотворение ми попадна преди две години. Въпреки положеното старание, не успях да открия източника и автора на превода – нямам дори представа от китайски или от друг език е направен. Поради естеството на преводаческата ми задача, се наложи се да го преведа на английски, тъй като не успях да открия и наличен англоезичен превод на същото. Буквално преди дни го изпратих на един приятел, американски художник от китайски произход, по повод на споменаването му в един от разговорите ни, като му го представих за стихотворение на Чу Юан. Ето какво ми писа в отговор той: ...Благодаря, за стихотворението на Чу Юан, което си ми изпратил. Мисля, че преводът е много добър, макар да не ми е попадал китайския оригинал. Той е един от нашите най-велики поети, но неговият китайски е от преди повече от две хиляди години, така че фактически не много съвременни китайци го разбират много добре, но ти благодаря, така или иначе, като благодаря и на българския преводач, който го е превел от китайски на български.  Подготвяйки тази публикация и зачитайки се по-внимателно в наличните източници на информация за Чу Юан в Мрежата, мисля че тук предлаганото стихотворение е по-скоро на споменатия по-горе Джя Йи, посветено на Чу Юан и мога да си обясня защо моят приятел художник не го е срещал като творба на последния. Все пак, реших да публикувам българската и английската версии тук, тъй като съдържанието му е напълно в духа на идеите на Хвърчащите хора, а и като пример за магическата сила на превода като средство за духовна връзка между хора от различни култури през разстояния, измервани в хилядолетия.

                                                                                                              Валентин Кръстев

                        ЧУ ЮАН

Изгнан бе Чу Юан от три години вече,

далеч от своя княз, от двора му далече.

Той служил бе и дълго, и вярно, и добре,

но как на клеветата отровата да спре?

И ето тръгна той самотен из полето,

и в смут му бе умът, и в скръб му бе сърцето.

При стария гадател отиде той накрай

и каза му: „Премъдри, съвет един ми дай!”

Гадателят тогаз отскубна от тревата,

прочитаща завчас на бъдното словата,

и плочи костенурчи обърса той от прах,

готов да види ясно неясното във тях.

„Кажи - му рече той - какво при мен те носи?”

И почна Цюй Юан със своите въпроси:

„Да бъда ли - той каза - и честен, и открит,

или пред големците да сменям глас и вид,

да пазя ли аз чест и да си патя с нея,

или да гоня чин и чинно да живея?

Дали иа скромна нива аз скромен труд да дам,

или да славя други, та славен да съм сам?

Да съм ли аз орел, орлите който гони,

или уханна мас за важните кокони?

Да бъда ли аз камък, да бъда ли човек,

или да се огъвам подобно ремък мек?

Дали като жребец да тичам, мятащ грива,

или да мъкна крак със крантата дръглива?

Да литна ли на лебед с полета висок,

или да цопам в локва с крясък на гъсок?

Гадателю велик, аз чакам твойта дума.

Нагде да тръгна аз? По кой от двата друма?

Светът е цял оплетен в небивали лъжи,

крилото на комара от бивол по тежи.

Звънчето от пиринч мълчи и се измъчва,

сред гръмкия кънтеж на дъбовата бъчва.

Говори клеветата, немее мъдростта,

кажи – кому е нужна днес мойта чистота?”

Гадателят тогаз тревите си остави

и каза с тъжен глас: „Какво да се направи?

Околните предмети самичък погледни

и разни ще ги видиш от разните страни.

Погледнеш ли от тук - изглежда светъл мракът,

а педята от там по-дълга е от лакът,

науката е плитка, животът е дълбок,

пред някои задачи почесва се и Бог,

затуй решавай сам със своя ум до края!

Аз друг съвет да дам, просителю, не зная,

че мойте плочки костни и тайнствени треви,

пред твоите въпроси безсилни са, уви!”

Qū Yuán (339 BCE – 278 BCE) was a Chinese poet, who lived during the Warring States Period in ancient China. Historical details about Qu Yuan's life are few, and his authorship of many of his poems has been questioned at length. However, he is widely accepted to have written Li Sao, the most well-known of the his poems, and possibly several others in the collection attributed to him. The first known reference to Qu Yuan appears in a poem written in 174 BCE by Jia Yi, an official from Luoyang, who was slandered by jealous officials and banished to Changsha by Emperor Wen of Han. While traveling, he wrote a poem describing the similar fate of a previous „Qu Yuan”.

Sima Qian's biography of Qu Yuan, though circumstantial and probably influenced greatly by Sima's own identification with Qu, is the traditional source of information on his life. Sima wrote that Qu was descended from a branch of the Chu royal clan and served as an official under King Huai of Chu, reigned 328-288 BCE). Qu was said to have advocated a policy of alliance with the other kingdoms of the period against the hegemonic Qin state, which threatened to dominate them all. However, the king fell under the influence of other corrupt, jealous ministers who slandered Qu Yuan and banished his most loyal counselors. It is said that Qu Yuan returned first to his family's home town. In his exile, he spent much of this time collecting legends and rearranging folk odes while traveling the countryside, producing some of the greatest poetry in Chinese literature and expressing fervent love for his state and his deepest concerns for its future.
According to legend, his anxiety brought him to an increasingly troubled state of health; during his depression, he would often take walks near a certain well, during which he would look upon his reflection in the water and his own person, thin and gaunt. According to legend, this well became known as the "Face Reflection Well." Today on a hillside in Xiangluping in in what is today Hubei province's Zigui County, there is a well which is considered to be the original well from the time of Qu Yuan.
In 278 BCE, learning of the capture of his country's capital, Ying, by General Bai Qi of the state of Qin, Qu Yuan is said to have written the lengthy poem of lamentation called “Lament for Ying” and later to have waded into the Miluo river in today's Hunan Province holding a great rock in order to commit ritual suicide as a form of protest against the corruption of the era.

Sources:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Qu_Yuan

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dragon_boat

I came across the poem published below two years ago. In spite of my efforts, I could not find either the original source where it came from, or the author of the Bulgarian translation. I do not even have any idea whether it was translated from the Chinese or from some other language. Due to the nature of my translation task, I had to translate it into English, since I could not find an available translation of it in that language. Literary a few days ago, I emailed it to a friend, an American artist of Chinese origin, before whom I had mentioned it in a conversation, presenting it to him as a poem by Qu Yuan. Here is what he wrote back to me: Thank you for sending me the poem of Qu Yuan. I think it's a very good translation though I haven't read the original in Chinese yet. He is one of our greatest poets in Chinese history but his Chinese was more than two thousand years old, so in fact not many modern Chinese understand it very well, but thank you anyway and thanks for the Bulgarian translator who translated it from Chinese into Bulgarian. Wrapping up this publication, and starting to read more carefully the available web sources of information about Qu Yuan and his time, I have come to the conclusion that it is rather the poem written by the above mentioned Jia Yi dedicated to Qu Yuan, and I understand why my artist friend has not come across it as a work of the latter. Nevertheless, I decided to publish both the Bulgarian and the English versions here, since the content of the poem is entirely in the spirit of the ideas of the Flying Folk, and also as an example of the magical force of translation as a means of spiritual relationship among people belonging to various cultures across distances measured in millennia.

                                                                                                        Valentin Krustev

                        QU YUAN

Qu Yuan was blamed and sent into exile

Far from his home and King, whom meanwhile

He’d served a long time, loyally, and well,

But how can one escape from slander’s hell?

Alone across the fields he wandered day and night

His mind confused, his heart bereft of pride.

And finally, he went to see an old diviner

To ask how to restore his worldly grandeur.

The old sage picked a tuft of grass, which tells

What’s laid in store for men in future days.

He brushed away the dust from tortoise shells

To clearly see in them what future veils.

He said to him: “What brings you here, man?”

And thus spoke out poor Qu Yuan:

“Shall I be honest and upright at any cost,

Or shall I change my looks and tone before big shots?

Shall I defend my honor and suffer then for that,

Or shall I creep for ranks and live then like a rat?

Shall I toil humbly on a humble field?

Or shall I honor others, so others honor me?

Shall I live like an eagle, which flies with the eagles?

Or be a dirty fiddler amidst a crowd of fiddlers?

Shall I become a stone, or shall I be a man?

Or shall I bend like belt or go round like a fan?

Shall I race like a colt with a flowing mane?

Or drag myself along on top some worn-out jade?

Shall I fly like a swan toward the skies in splendor?

Or shall I wade in ponds, squawking like a gander?

O, great diviner, tell me your words:

Which one of those two ways to choose?

The world’s enmeshed in a web of lies,

The fly’s wing weighs more than a bull, yet twice.

The brass bell’s numb, uneasy in the air,

Amidst the echo of the oaken barrel.

And slander speaks aloud, while wisdom is at bay...

So, tell me, does one need my purity today?

The old diviner left the herbs, his features blurred,

And sadly said: “So goes the world.”

Look yourself around and you will see that things

Are different from their different sides, just think:

From here darkness looks like lighter, doesn’t it?

A span from there looks like longer than a cubit.

Knowledge is shallow, life is deep.

Some tasks make even God sweat and creep.

So make your mind yourself right through the end!

That’s the advice I’d offer you, my friend,

Because my tortoise shells and magic herbs

Can’t help me answer questions so diverse.

Хвърчащи хора кацнаха за миг
в. Труд, 26 юли, 2012

Директорът на Американския научен център (АНЦС) - археологът Ерик де Сена, приветства първата сбирка на Хвърчащите хора. (Автор: Олег Попов)

The Director of the American Research Center in Sofia (ARCS), Eric De Sena, welcomes the first gathering of the Flying Folk. (Photo, Oleg Popov)

В София се учреди единствен по рода си Клуб на Хвърчащите хора. Не става въпрос обаче за летци или супермени, а за хора на изкуството. Името на клуба идва от известното стихотворение на Валери Петров "Хвърчащите хора", където става въпрос за тези, които не се интересуват само от битовата страна на живота.

Това  е  първата инициатива на Ерик Де Сена, новия директор на АНЦС, осигурил писта за приземяване на Хвърчащите. АНЦС е създаден през 2004 г. от български и американски учени в областта на класическите езици и култура за улесняване на академичните изследвания на американски учени в България и сътрудничество между учените от САЩ и Югоизточна Европа (Албания, България, Косово, Македония, Монтенегро, Румъния и Сърбия). Сред конкретните цели на АНЦС са изследвания в хуманитарните и обществените науки (в областта на антропологията, археологията, история на изкуството, епиграфиката, историята, филологията и др.) от предисторическо време до наши дни.

Приветствието на Ерик Де Сена, бе последвано от литературно четене. Присъстваха музикологът Еран Ливни, представител на Посолството на САЩ, български поети, литературни изследователи критици, преводачи и други Хвърчащи хора. Клубът е отворен културен кръг на поети, писатели, художници, музиканти и свободомислещи хора.

Flying Folk Landed for a While

Trud Daily, July 26, 2012

The Flying Folk Club, unique of its kind, was established in Sofia. However, it does not bring together flyers or supermen, but men of arts. The name comes from Valeri Petrov’s poem The Flying Folk, which talks about those, who are not interested only in the material side of life.

This is the first initiative of Eric De Sena, the new Director of the American Research Center in Sofia (ARCS), which provided the track for the landing of the Flying Folk. ARCS was established in 2004 by Bulgarian and American scholars in the field of classical languages and culture to facilitate the academic research in Bulgaria for North American scholars and collaboration between scholars from North America and countries in Southeast Europe (Albania, Bulgaria, Kosovo, Macedonia, Montenegro, Romania and Serbia). Among ARCS specific goals are: research in the humanities and social sciences (in the fields of anthropology, archaeology, art history, epigraphy, history, philology, among others), from prehistory through the modern age.

Eric De Sena’s welcoming presentation was followed by a literary reading. Among those who attended were musicologist Eran Livni, a representative of the US Embassy, Bulgarian poets, and literary scholars and critics, historians, translators, and other Flying Folk. The Club is an open cultural circle of poets, writers, artists, musicians, and free thinking people.

Ancuta De Sena / Анкуца Де Сена

Ancuta De Sena was born in Zalau, Salaj, Romania, Northern Transilvania. She has graduated from the Iuliu Hatieganu University of Medicine and Pharmacy , Cluj-Napoca, in 1997. She has worked as a military medic for the Romanian Mistry of the Interior. She has been writing short stories, some of which have won awards in student literary competitions, and she has been painting since her student years. She has participated in the creative life of the literary circles in Cluj and Zalau. She is also interested in alternative medicine, yoga, ayurveda, neuro-linguistic programming. 

Анкуца Де Сена е родена в Залъу, Салаж, Румъния, Северна Трансилвания. Завършила е Университета по медицина и фармация „Юлиу Хациегану”, в Клуж-Напока през 1997 г. Работила е като военен лекар в системата на румънското Министерство на вътрешните работи.

От студентските си години пише разкази, награждавани в студентски литературни конкурси и рисува. Участва в творческия живот на литературните среди в Клуж и Залъу. Интересува се също от алтернативна медицина, йога, аюрведа, невро-лингвистично програмиране.

These are watercolors painted during her first days in Bulgaria in early July, 2012.
Това са акварели, рисувани през първите й дни в България в началото на юли, 2012.

LEOPARD IN THE WILDERNESS

a short story 

"They go wandering through the wilderness with wild beasts, as they themselves would be beasts."

       — St. Ephrem Sirul, "Eulogy to the Lonely Ones"

She sat on a rock in the wilderness and, while the moon was setting huge, looked inward through an immense silence. And so she prayed: "O Lord, my first love, allow my soul to melt into your heart! If this is your will, and if it’s according to your love, send me a sign."
            Suddenly a wind enshrouded her, whispering around words and phrases from the sacred texts that had been inscribed into her being. She took her body out of the refuge of her mantle and straightened her back, hands on knees. She closed her eyes, ready to receive the sign.

            And then on the horizon rose the roar of the storm. Storm. She opened her eyes, puzzled. A storm? Not even a drop. Only rock and ice. Only two drops. Of tears. But how meaningless was this lament before the storm! Before the real storm.

            She drew a deep breath into her chest and the storm absorbed her suddenly in a bewildering roar, twisting her hair with sand, and thrusting her dizzy into a thousand hungry vortexes. And she became one with the stone and only her hair was waving up like fire. And the wild wind built walls of sand over her feet and over her head.
At the climax, when only faith can keep you alive, the storm unleashed, kidnapping all her thoughts. And with truth, after she was purified, the desert storm went on the wilderness road, as it came.

            She slowly moved her fingers, raising the sand piled over her, lifted her front with beads and yarn flowing as in the hourglass, stood up and shook her clothes, made simply of her own hair. She turned away slowly, sunk in a deep clarity. Like a leopard in the wilderness. And the stars shined her way.

            She entered naked into the city, slowly passing along the streets, stepping silently on bare feet.

            No one remarked about her nakedness, because the people were busy during the day, trapped in their own purposes.

            Only her friends saw, as she sat on the steps of the temple, chin supported in her hands.
            “Why do you walk naked through the city, you, who are a saint?”

            A long time she remained silent, watching the apparently chaotic movement of the people in the square.

            “While meditating in the wilderness, God sent an angel to me, who thoroughly interrogated me and reprimanded me with anger for my huge pride. All signs of holiness, he pulled on me. Meat from the bones, as if he wanted to tear me apart! I waved like a cloth and I have already left to take its toll.”

            “What a terrible angel!”

            “However, I am alive and emptied. The people will dress me, each according to their imagination, in a way that does not matter as long as I do not mind.”
Friends gathered slowly, for nothing was more welcome than a lengthy discussion, weaving directions into beauty, laughter and warmth. And they clothed her in a wonderful long dress and their lark voices built nests packed with smiles in her heart.
 And then she recognized the truth, like a great secret hidden in the depths of the soul, for years covered with layers and layers of sacred texts: "Whenever I would forget God for a happy and bright home! He knows this. That's why he sends angels of anger to throw stones into my heart. "

            And clothed in white robes and holding their hands, they all ran through the city. And everyone who saw their beauty heard their songs and their laughs, felt his heart filled with joy.

            Many men came to her to enlighten their souls but she saw no one.
He was a warrior of the desert, survived many wars, and was disgusted by women. He saw her among her friends and called her on the steps of the temple. He told her how wonderful she is and, deepened in the purest joy, they sat embraced. Their souls bonding.

            And people walked around them like a river flowing to nowhere.
They shared many days and nights, two wandering sons of the desert, carved from the same stone. He showed her his horse, the weapons he loved most and said all those words which she herself would have said if she were a man. Their hearts were looking eye to eye, scanning the infinite within.

            He said that he had to go to the war. She promised that she would wait for him. And after they exchanged vows, he went among his friends.
For a long time he did not come home. She remained immersed in her daily routine, in the study of sacred books, and often looked out the window, hoping that he will be reminded of her. Nights in a row she blinked, huddled within the sheets, scanning the darkness where she saw lightning pictures and memories, words and feelings. And behind the images, in part, protruding like a small pungent knife, was a mysterious little creature: fear. He may not come again. Perhaps this departure and the unnatural silence was his way to say goodbye.

            And the small nocturnal being stood still there in the room, behind her and to one side.
            She sighed and revolved nesting and seeking the waving of his white shirt. She turned her head and face onto the pillow, searching for his scent. When she found it, somewhere deep in her memory, a much-needed certainty, her heart escaped the pain, and she fell asleep.

            Morning after morning she started again: rituals of purification and study of sacred books in which she immersed herself with wildness and despair.

            But night came inevitable. The inner eye opened, again awake. Uselessly, she blinked in the dark, the small creature was there. Drop by drop, moment by moment, her heart filled with fear. Fear for the unwanted end. The horror that she will never see him again, fear that she will not hear his voice, fear that she will never feel the embrace with his perfume and pleasure.

            The desert wind knocked the shutters and the small creature opened its eyes widely, together with her: "The angel is my owner". And she squirmed, profound crying squeezed through her heart, but she didn’t want to let it go. And the finger of the angel of the storm banged the shutters. "There is nothing to wait for anymore, being this the last night! One word and I will take him off your heart forever!" The angel stood waving his cloak of sand over the desert. The friend Storm. The Right-maker.

            She arose from the bed, immediately determined to end this. She put both her knees on the floor and began to pray for him with all her love. White fingers clenched during the wind’s battle in the night, until the passionate embracing of the palms fused into a sacred light. And into the floating of the prayer for his health and life, the crystal drops of sweat melted into the aura of the full moon.

            Morning arrived in a deep peace. And while singing in the sunny courtyard, gathering scattered objects after the storm, she heard people calling on the street. She wiped her hands and ran with other people, curious to see what had happened.
During the storm, a mousetrap of the neighbors caught a small creature. She rushed to see it. She watched magnetized, with the hair of her arms prickling upright. The people told how they killed the creature, how much it cried and struggled and how hard it was...
She withdrew from the crowd and hid in the house, in a deep silence. Her soul trembled. Trembling flesh. The small creature now moved before her eyes.

            And one evening he returned. He was weak and very tired. No kiss and no embrace, only talk of how distraught he was: disillusioned by his comrades in arms, by the places where they walked, disappointed by the fate of battles in which he fought.
And all he wanted was to sleep. She set the white sheets, gave him to eat and let him rest in peace. She withdrew and, biting her fists, prayed with tears of joy.
The next day she made him food, served him on the finest dishes and listened again to all his complaints.

            The third day the same, the fourth day, the fifth day as the sixth day ... On the seventh day she said: "Let me smell your shirt."

            And he began again to talk about what he was doing: comrades did not fare well, the weapons became rusted.

            “No one in the world had any idea how seriously iron can be bitten by neglect, even the noblest iron, if a small spot of rust is not removed in time. Especially since times were as they were and you never knew when you need a good weapon.” And her heart closed into a bitter knot.

            Another day she tried to tell him about what she had done in his absence. She explained how much progress she made in the study of sacred texts. And he indignantly interrupted her and told her that this is not the way to read sacred texts. What did she want? To show off such a thing, simply to stand out in the eyes of the world? Eventually, she was like everyone else, willing because of vanity to cite the sacraments, even if they had no idea about these matters. Only did things to give the impression that they know what they are doing. He had seen many such people. And no one was better. Anyway, he had a lot of important things to do and couldn’t understand why he was cooling his mouth when he was sure that these discussions would not change anything.

           After two days they had the courage to address each other again, he said that she was hurting herself with her imagination, that she was thinking too much and should not care about so much futile thoughts. Every word she uttered, he turned it against her and when she stopped talking, he asked why she got angry when the truth should be just accepted as is.

          She closed herself in her room and she was not even able to put her knees on the floor for praying. She stayed so long with her blind heart, beating back and forth. The sun was setting and rising over the desert. He was on the outside, whistling.

          And in the night the wind softly creaked the shutters. And she turned her head. The storm was coming. Not a drop of rain. Only rock and ice. Twisting sands at night.

          A bolt of lightning crackled above, nearly shattering the heavens.

          The first two drops burst hard on the floor, where her knees settled once for prayer. And two more, splashed warmly, darkening the stone, for the angel's creature who kept her company so many nights. And two more, for the soul of the right and good warrior who never came back home and for whom she was ready to forget God. And two more, because she was on the point to forget God. And two more... And more ... And more ... Mute crying, biting wet fists.

         In the morning another person woke up. She tore off her clothes, jumped out the window and stepped unheard steps under the last star in the path of the storm, returning to her true and first love, which never came, but never went anywhere. And she knew that there in the desert, somewhere, maybe in the heart of God (certainly there!) there is the soul of the mystical, free and always winning man, that her heart waited for countless days and nights.

Таня Кольовска / Tanya Kolyovska

Tanya Kolyovska was born in Sofia. After she graduated from the Sofia University, she has been working as a freelance journalist and translator.

Her first book of poems Elusive Light was published in 1988. In 1997 her second book Bird’s Compassion came out, followed by The Bottom of the Hat (1998) and Farther on Try Alone (2004). She has been awarded the Antonietta Drago Grand Prize at an All-European Poetry Contest in Rome.

Even though for the time being she is mainly translating (one of her latest translations is the best selling book Gomorra by Roberto Saviani), when she does put down verse, in the words of Kristin Dimitrova, “Kolyovska’s poems make you bleed, but they do not allow for whining”.

ITALY

The cypresses,

ah, the cypresses –

slender shadows

of radiant souls.

         * * *

When autumn smiles,

the rains

will hush up right away,

and in the very

corner of the eye

the gentle profile

of blood that won’t be shed

will be reflected.

OCTOBER

Across a well of autumn rays

the street sets out

for the sky.

The trees flow down molten.

Homeless dogs

warm the sidewalk.

The shadows vanish.

ORGAN

With austere pipes

God plays

His melody.

His back turned to the audience.

APRIL

Entered into spring

the trees

do not set feet

upon the earth.

       * * *

The old woman

I buy flowers from

every year

throughout the years….

Like a dry tiny blade of grass

she sways gently in the garden –

larger and larger,

amidst flowers –

taller and taller,

waiting for me –

every year

throughout the years.

        * * *

Perhaps it really is

time to go.

I bow.

I bow.

I bow.

My back is upright

and my neck is smooth.

        * * *

Men don’t bestow me

with memories somehow.

Assiduous, obedient,

devoted.

Counterclockwise.

That’s how

they implement the sentiment:

befuddled fantasies and efforts.

I know sand:

the grains are not worth counting.

        For K.

The suggestive curve

of a cat’s back.

Sheerly guarded

distances.

My sunlit

quiet expanse—

how laughably

conquered empires.

          * * *

Children

with eyes like wastelands

in scraped out faces, swirled

away from our innocence,

in the outskirts of the world.

What kind of random optimism

could lend a reason that consoles?

Children

with eyes like deserts

search our souls.

TURKEY-COCK DANCE

Carmen looks like a little old wife

now used to what comes in her life.

But her turkey mate stomps,

he’ll split the earth

because that’s the way he makes love.

His wing cuts the thick air,

the blood bubbles red in his wattles.

A few feathers, detached and unaware,

spot the knife being whetted.

                * * *

The sun and the little old woman

hunchbacked

walk down the path

towards me.

I can store them

as a memory

the sun and the old woman.

I am but a visitor.

STREET MUSICIAN

Turned loose,

the fingers draw out

a straightforward declaration of love

and the lips fiddle away

moist tenderness—

while shame lurks sleeping

at the bottom of the hat.

LIKE THIS

Like this:

with my living

with my dead

and the raindrops behind the windowpane.

So:

charged with decency and force

not becoming worse.

For long:

in the quiet understanding

of our cautious feelings.

TRIPTYCH

For Krassi

1

The rainbow loses

all stability

hurled belly down.

2

The street was expressive –

with shades in the eyes

and the splashed about skies.

3

A talking olive tree.

           * * *

A sound from someone else’s song—

a sign my own shall make its mark.

Birds like ashes.

Autumn.

Husky dark.

A WINK

To those who

love me,

I dedicate

my immortality.

(It’s delightful to perform

miracles

when there are

onlookers.)

MAGIC

Only fall and I can manage

Being beautiful and ageing.

© Tanya Kolyovska

© Translated from the Bulgarian by Valentin Krustev

Poetry Reading at ARCS

"Flying Folk" poetry reading

July 24 2012 19:00

On a warm summer Sofia night, ARCS hosted the "Flying Folk", a friendly and expandable circle of poets and prose writers aimed at reading poems and literary samples, discussing, offering advice, inspiring, poking fun and sometimes cringing at what was read. Founded by ARCS Director, Eric De Sena, Ancuta Maries and local poet Valentin Krustev, about 25 flying folk filled the lecture room. One of the highlights was a reading by poet Tanya Koliovska in Bulgarian with a simultaneous English translation by the film producer, Ben Bedo Manoukian. In the audience was one of ARCS's first Fellows (2007), Eran Livni, a musicologist currently teaching in Virginia.

http://arcsofia.org/en/news/44-Flying-Folk-poetry-reading

Литературно четене на „Хвърчащите хора”

24 юли 2012 19:00

В горещата софийска юлска вечер АНЦС беше домакин на „Хвърчащите хора” – приятелски отворен кръг от поети и писатели, обединени с цел да си четат стихотворения и литературни опити, да обсъждат, да си помагат със съвети, вдъхновение, да се сешуват, а понякога и надсмиват на прочетеното. Присъединилите се към клуба, основан от Директора на АНЦС Ерик Де Сена, Анкуца Мариес и поета Валентин Кръстев, събра около 25 хвърчащи хора в лекторската зала на Центъра. Един от ярките моменти на вечерта беше четенето на поетесата Таня Кольовска, на български, прочетени в превод на английски от кинопродуцента Бен Бедо Манукян. Сред публиката беше един от първите научни сътрудници на АНЦС (2007), Еран Ливни, музиколог, който понастоящем преподава във Вирджиния, САЩ.