Екатерина Йосифова / Ekaterina Yossifova

The most unusual flower in the field of contemporary Bulgarian poetry. Together with the poet Binyo Ivanov (God bless his soul!), they turned the town of Kyustendil into a magnetic metaphor. Their works are outside the law of creating poetry, of breathing through poetry, and this idiosyncrasy of theirs was hard to be assimilated by the Marxist-Leninist literary criticism… Ekaterina Yossifova is a proven phenomenon not only in Bulgaria, but also abroad. She has written 13 books of poetry and several books for children. She has been awarded the Annual Prize of the Union of Bulgarian Writers (1984, 1994), the Prize of the Bulgarian Writers’ Society for the Best Book of the Year (1998) and the “Ivan Nikolov” Prize (for life achievement, 1999, and for her book That Serpent, 2010).  Her poems have been translated into English, Russian. Hungarian, Italian, German and the Balkan languages… Purity, honor and charm: this is the inner world of this poet, who has never insisted to show herself, yet not a single of her books remains unnoticed. Both her left-wing and right-wing colleagues treat her with respect; the young ones adore her… A strange, bewitching flower, shining with a light of its own above our southern land.

NEW STALKS

beneath the snow, each regime
is breeding its own riot.

IT IS HERE

I listen for
the gentle breathing:

it is here: the childhood
with the serious little face

with scout’s senses
with the instincts of a thief

throughout a country that
will remain the only one

inhaled
tasted

traversed
with steps infirm.

I NOTE DOWN

I note down
what is worth being said,
if not today, at least tomorrow.
Or some day.
What hasn’t been noted down
lurks beneath the bones
of my Jurassic period,
it smoulders beneath the layers
of my Pliocene:
my nameless beast.

UNDER WINTER’S ROOF

Let us honor the gifts,
let us cut quinces into the wine,
let us serve the salty grapes of the memories.

We have experienced as much as we could—
pain walks along with joy,
which annulls the doom.

We have used both shouts and words,
we won’t hurt the earth with them,
but we may just as well keep silent for a while, like old friends.

COMPULSION

It locks you up, ideally, in a solitary cell
with something to play, for instance, a violin,
and tells you: you’ll get out of here when you start playing;
or in a cell with a Chinaman:
you’ll get out when you begin to speak Chinese.
It never asked me
to write a poem.
It did me some good, though:
I can repair my hot plate.
I can dismantle my lock.

AT FIRST THE BUS WAS LATE

then there was a traffic jam,
then I missed my stop.
For that I also have an explanation:
it had grown quite dark outside,
in the mirror of the window my face looked
the way only you remember it.
I stared at it.

THE GLASS

It was one for the two of us; we shared it, passing it between us,
staring at the embers behind the open stove door.
He said: it is good to remain
by oneself with the fire sometimes.

We lived in different cities; we travelled
towards one another.
It would happen:
wine and one glass. We would say to ourselves:

Cheers.
We did not give in to youth,
so why should we give in to old age?

UP AND DOWN

Up are those who have climbed up
down – the fallen ones.
In between them –
steep and
muddy.

THE GRINDSTONE

Blade against stone.
Sparks from under the blade.
I came with two meek kitchen knives,
but the grindstone knows otherwise.
Old, good is the steel:
drunk with force,
tempered in blood.
The grindstone has historical memory.

LA POÈME OBLIGE

He wrote that poem
We forgave him his earlier dirty tricks
He played new ones
We did not forgive him the poem.

A TRAIN IN THE NIGHT

It whistled, passed by,
in dashed
the silence, the field,
the crickets,
the railroad ties, the stars
I have not forgotten the longing
and the peace

A SMALL PARK: AUTUMN

The man on the bench with the knapsack at his feet
lies in wait for listeners.
He’s talking of some home, roving in some past
or maybe future.
The air already smells of snow.
I have to take the children home, I say.
The man keeps silent, roving.
Night approaches — something peaceful, but too vast.

THE ERROR

It is hiding somewhere
in the depths of history
it has buried itself somewhere
in some cave some tradition some maze
in the convolutions of the brain
whose brain, of course, I don’t know.

THE COCKROACH, THE PELARGONIUM AND I

breathe
the same air
that’s been exhaled
for at least three billion years
we drink
water, which remembers
I pretty much guess
this bill will be on me.

SPRING: BELLS

Nothing more playful than
the white kid,
nothing more milky, nothing more spring-
like
than the kid
leaping with joy for the sake
of leaping,
horning the air
for air’s sake,
nuzzling against me
for the sake of me
nonfeeding, nonplaying, shivering with
cold
in the ringing prefeast air, knowing
what one would not wish to know.

I AND MY
living
complement one another
sufficiently
to seem
looked at from a distance
one whole.

UP ABOVE THE WIND
fills my ears with windborne deafness,
dries up my eyes, pulls at my clothes,
my hair flaps

I have no other flag.

HANDS

Definitely my right hand is more hard-working.
Definitely my left one is more good-looking.

WHEN IT IS

When it is light and plain
like a whitewashed house in the field—
a plank-bed for lovemaking, wine
for guests, a flower on the window sill.

When it is a house in the field,
even life is enough to tackle:
beautiful is the sky, it feels
beautiful with my shackles.

© Ekaterina Yossifova
© Translated from the Bulgarian by Valentin Krustev and Donna Martell

AT TNE END OF THE HUMAN VILLAGE

There should be a shelter: three walls and a roof.
No door creaking.
No threshold to stumble at.
Nothing to catch your clothes.

No whisper of warning voices.

Just a fireplace and

the taleteller in the far end.

LACK OF PERSPECTIVE

a face close up
perspective eludes me
even closer

to hell with perspectives

FEMALE BABBLE

Streaks of sand

and gravel,

sand and gravel

on the secret.

MOUTH

Across my eyes: the blindfold of what has been seen.

Inside my ears: the plugs against what’s been heard.

Around my wrists: the handcuffs of what has been done.

The mouth alone remains.

MUSIC, MUSIC!

Not this music. It reminds me

I am writing in becoming faded ink.

Not that other either, which is

galloping in place: galloping immobility.

Not even that one, which comes

from places beautiful and dull.

Not the sirens or the angels. Or Orpheus,

the healer, the one who knows

no limits. “A chasm is a space for walking,

freedom is achievable,” he sang.

Come on, you can’t fool us.

© Ekaterina Yossifova
© Translated from the Bulgarian by Valentin Krustev

НА КРАЯ НА ЧОВЕШКОТО СЕЛО

Трябва да има заслон: три стени и покрив.
Без врата - да скърца.
Без праг да се спънеш.
Нищо да не ти закача дрехата.
Да не шушне с предупреждаващи гласове.
Само огнище и
Разказвачът на приказки в дъното.

БЕЗПЕРСПЕКТИВНОСТ

лице отблизо
губи ми се перспективата
още по-близо
по дяволите перспективите

ЖЕНСКО БЪБРЕНЕ

Струйки пясък
и камъчета,
пясък и камъчета
върху тайната.

УСТА

На очите (ми) - превръзката на видяното.
В ушите - запушалките на чутото.
На ръцете - белезниците на направеното.
Остава устата.

ТОЧИЛОТО

Ж-ж-ж! - острие върху камък.
И-и-и! - искри изпод острието.
С два кротки кухненски ножа дойдох,
но точилото друго знае:
стара, добра стомана,
и-и-и! - пияна от сила,
ж-ж-ж! - в кръв закалена.
Има точилото историческа памет.

МУЗИКА, МУЗИКА!

Не тази музика. Тя ми напомня,
че пиша с избледняващо мастило.

Не и другата, която е
препускане на място. Препускаща неподвижност.

Не и онази, която идва
от места красиви и скучни.
Не сирените, нито ангелите. Нито Орфей
лечителя, непризнаващия
границите. Бездната е място за разходка,
свободата е възможна - пеел той.
Не на нас тия.


© Екатерина Йосифова