Nombre: Roza Boianova
Lugar de nacimiento: Rabrovo, Vidin, Bulgaria
Residencia actual: Burgas, Bulgaria
Miembro desde: 22/03/2012
Poemas incluidos en esta página:
- The man by my side.
- At last, a thief in my house too.
- How William recites poems.
- What imagination can do with a rifle.
- If you jump over the known.
- The quince.
- Two rivers keep writing by my father's home.
- About the bones of tongue.
- The islander's idea.
- Between the star.
- A comet.
- To be unconsciously different.
- Ligth is bending.
- An angel's father.
- Because of the rapacious eye of a priestess.
- While T He world.
- Metaphor is the impossible bridge.
- In the corner of my mind.
- By the water's keyboard.
THE MAN BY MY SIDE is a walking stick dropped on the road.
And it’s been so long I’ve been walking bent over him.
Now I straiten up and learn to walk again.
The body grown heavy sways likes the point of a balance.
And the world leans on me
AT LAST, A THIEF IN MY HOUSE TOO
Having not been able to flee, he is still looking for me:
to rob my sleep and my thick solitude,
having hidden his two traces under the table.
He has set in front of me wine and words;
the small vase abounds with promises.
And he’s listening to the laughter on the drowsy stairs,
and repeating aloud that I have returned.
And my neighbour is wandering lost in thought in the garden,
picking night flowers and throwing them at the window panes.
In a little while he’ll climb up the vine-arbours
to see who’s my destiny talking with.
At last, I’ll be able to break the windows,
to wake up the neighbourhood with the indolent dogs,
and to cry out to everyone:
HOW WILLIAM RECITES POEMS
drawing spiders in the dirt
having puzzled the end of the afternoon.
William’s old combat shoes
look at the diminished day
over which they have been flying –
dangerous poems keep booming in his ears.
The other ages are afraid to come.
Even a lake won’t have a clearer eye.
WHAT IMAGINATION CAN DO WITH A RIFLE
While Lyubo Levchev is making us a declaration of Orphism
And the meat-eating bear knows:
my son would never harm her,
the never-ending honey of the hunt.
She will read his tracks.
In memory the strange chasm lurks
it gapes hungry and evil,
The loaded rifle on the stage of the sheet of paper
With a pen in your pocket,
you can be more dangerous.
From “Several Fairy-Tales for Children”
IF YOU JUMP OVER THE KNOWN
shod in fox-leather boots,
from outside or from inside,
and you will meet astounded
playing together, without impacting one another,
understanding better one another,
in so many various languages.
Even without a moral at the end.
good, wrong, beautiful and ugly
lie hidden in the fairy-tales –
sometimes they are alarmingly alike.
The chair throws the clothes on its shoulders.
The lamp blinks with uneasiness.
The bed creaks with pleasure.
The ashtray is full of kisses…
All the seasons – in one fruit.
The rot of autumn has bitten off the soft half.
the seeds sprout vernally.
preserved amidst the snow,
withers away with yellow flesh.
If the branch, from which it fell,
the severe answer of gravitation would have finished it off..
now it would be lying wholesome in the mild foliage.
It’s just as well that not everything is ordinary.
Otherwise, how would poems
TWO RIVERS KEEP WRITING BY MY FATHER’S HOME
How many years since his daughters –
The bridges, built by him, have survived –
One made of rough stone –
it doesn’t feel how the water demolishes it fondly;
the other one – knitted out of ropes and air –
a cradle rocked by destiny.
But what can one gain victory over
From the first bridge death fell,
it is still fishing for trout under the second one.
It doesn’t reach for you, if you feed it,
it doesn’t come, unless you drive it away.
stops in front of my home –
My friends stop drinking,
the children are astounded:
once he holds her in his arms
ABOUT THE BONES OF TONGUE
we judge by the remnants of dinosaurs.
by the imprints of mollusks
which heaves the mountain today.
the signs of war be ossified,
I have never had such need of time
I draw the challenge out of the dictionary.
Water has done its work: it has sucked out
(It has always been wise)
downriver there is a water mill.
When it turns into light,
And generously spills it.
Everything is contained in a river.
To comprehend with my senses
a collar of exasperation.
An extinguished into flesh
and turned me into a little mound of sky.
TO BE UNCONSCIOUSLY DIFFERENT
on the hill of contemplation,
Gifted out of proportion,
it makes everything around meaningless.
in my father’s worn smooth sandals
BECAUSE OF THE RAPACIOUS EYE OF A PRIESTESS,
because of all the coldness of the pleasure
and the severity with a Pharaoh’s profile,
You play with the fallen angel,
others pass carelessly by.
The poesy of flesh is writing you.
A tiny scratch of rapture
WHILE THE WORLD –
is somersaulting in the air,
and in whose hand we’ll fall.
into a tiny corner of a distorting mirror.
a dictionary with messed up words,
It takes deceptions on its shoulders,
rubs the borders with a bruised knee,
METAPHOR IS THE IMPOSSIBLE BRIDGE
between the two banks of a truth.
Metaphor is the impossible truth,
which makes the bridge necessary.
The metaphor of the village is
out of which flows what will be
and swells what has been.
the village has no need of metaphors –
IN THE CORNER OF MY MIND,
undirected by rules or taboos,
However, what if I’m an angel’s pen?
Let the tiny tongue keep scratching,
by the sea’s coming into leaf,
Entering into the darkness
Eavesdropping on the Cosmos –
Knowledge is a sticky satiation.
Translated by Valentin Krustev