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.
- Date.
- Parting.
- The quince.
- Two rivers keep writing by my father's home.
- About the bones of tongue.
- Wreck.
- Lord.
- 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:
it’s a thief we need
like fatigue for bread,
and emotion for wine.
HOW WILLIAM RECITES POEMS
He rises suddenly.
His elegant
multiped walking stick
is almost needless:
drawing spiders in the dirt
a solitary question mark
having puzzled the end of the afternoon.
With overcurious eyes
William’s old combat shoes
look at the diminished day
over which they have been flying –
now he rises a little,
his spine gives a crack,
dangerous poems keep booming in his ears.
The other ages are afraid to come.
Even a lake won’t have a clearer eye.
O, robust words,
you make me blush!
WHAT IMAGINATION CAN DO WITH A RIFLE
While Lyubo Levchev is making us a declaration of Orphism
Over my son’s shoulder
is slung a dream –
it can’t alight,
he is a bird himself.
Threat is so natural!
And the meat-eating bear knows:
my son would never harm her,
but he would try
the never-ending honey of the hunt.
She will read his tracks.
In memory the strange chasm lurks
sometimes –
it gapes hungry and evil,
and is never satiated.
The loaded rifle on the stage of the sheet of paper
doesn’t always fire.
With a pen in your pocket,
you can be more dangerous.
From “Several Fairy-Tales for Children”
2.
IF YOU JUMP OVER THE KNOWN
shod in fox-leather boots,
you will see yourself –
from outside or from inside,
and you will meet astounded
the barely visible,
but also the big,
the cosmic
and the earthly
playing together, without impacting one another,
understanding better one another,
because they talk
in so many various languages.
Even without a moral at the end.
you will come to know:
good, wrong, beautiful and ugly
lie hidden in the fairy-tales –
sometimes they are alarmingly alike.
DATE
The chair throws the clothes on its shoulders.
The lamp blinks with uneasiness.
The bed creaks with pleasure.
PARTING
The ashtray is full of kisses…
THE QUINCE
All the seasons – in one fruit.
Look:
wise nature teaches
surrealism.
The rot of autumn has bitten off the soft half.
In the warm womb
the seeds sprout vernally.
However, ripeness too,
preserved amidst the snow,
withers away with yellow flesh.
If the branch, from which it fell,
was a little higher,
the severe answer of gravitation would have finished it off..
If it were
just one little seed
lighter,
now it would be lying wholesome in the mild foliage.
It’s just as well that not everything is ordinary.
Otherwise, how would poems
bear us?!
TWO RIVERS KEEP WRITING BY MY FATHER’S HOME
the name of victory.
How many years since his daughters –
two swans –
have learned to read…
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
in just a lifetime?!
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.
The nettle picker
stops in front of my home –
beautiful
as a fairy-tale.
And, what good luck,
she enters my poem
by herself.
My friends stop drinking,
the children are astounded:
does the prince
really
not get stung,
once he holds her in his arms
instead of me?
ABOUT THE BONES OF TONGUE
we judge by the remnants of dinosaurs.
About silence –
by the imprints of mollusks
on the bottom,
which heaves the mountain today.
Better
the signs of war be ossified,
it were already over.
I have never had such need of time
as a motion
which sweeps away
sorrow.
WRECK
I draw the challenge out of the dictionary.
Water has done its work: it has sucked out
the air ,
the life,
the integrity.
It has left just
an imprint of time,
(It has always been wise)
of belonging,
of cause or effect.
(And has been verbose).
Some manage to make it
build up:
downriver there is a water mill.
(It’s too romantic).
When it turns into light,
it looks so pleased.
The water-clock
befittingly
fills its pools
with time.
And generously spills it.
Do not ask
why now it looks
desolate.
Everything is contained in a river.
LORD,
to dip for once
a pen
in your inkpot!
To comprehend with my senses
the simplest contours
of wisdom.
THE ISLANDER’S IDEA
of horizon
is water.
The islander’s idea
of the world
is a flood.
The rest:
alone in the skiff
God has given him
to get faster
to Him.
BETWEEN THE STAR
and the cigarette-end:
a collar of exasperation.
An extinguished into flesh
tiny ember.
A COMET
came into the room
and turned me into a little mound of sky.
TO BE UNCONSCIOUSLY DIFFERENT
on the hill of contemplation,
in the throat of ozone.
Before turning into
the curve
of a hieroglyph…
LIGTH IS BENDING
the horizon within me
to the limit of flight.
Gifted out of proportion,
no matter where it is,
it makes everything around meaningless.
AN ANGEL’S FATHER
in my son’s bed.
An afternoon nap
in my father’s worn smooth sandals
I walk
on the keys
of wonderment.
BECAUSE OF THE RAPACIOUS EYE OF A PRIESTESS,
because of all the coldness of the pleasure
and the severity with a Pharaoh’s profile,
how shall I call you?
You play with the fallen angel,
pluck out its feathers.
You read the unseen –
that, which
others pass carelessly by.
The poesy of flesh is writing you.
A tiny scratch of rapture
continues your kind…
WHILE THE WORLD –
a tossed up coin –
is somersaulting in the air,
we hold our breaths,
because we don’t know
which side we are on
and in whose hand we’ll fall.
Art withdraws
into a tiny corner of a distorting mirror.
a dictionary with messed up words,
modernity without rules,
a rule without grammar.
It takes deceptions on its shoulders,
rubs the borders with a bruised knee,
veins throbbing in wait:
March!
Lust!
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
a memory,
out of which flows what will be
and swells what has been.
Actually,
the village has no need of metaphors –
there isn’t even
a trace of a river.
IN THE CORNER OF MY MIND,
undirected by rules or taboos,
I held this:
The ball keeps rolling,
and your unraveling
is over.
However, what if I’m an angel’s pen?
Let the tiny tongue keep scratching,
be it silver
or platinum!
BY THE WATER’S KEYBOARD,
by the sea’s coming into leaf,
sense stands up.
Tearing off of matter,
saturation.
Sound.
The name finds
its anonymous body.
Entering into the darkness
is painful,
Eavesdropping on the Cosmos –
burning.
Knowledge is a sticky satiation.
Translated by Valentin Krustev