I see the child
arranges the crumbs on the table
look flower look sun
places the crumbs in her hand
her hand in my hand
-Daniela Mihaleva,
translated from the Bulgarian
by Katerina Stoykova-Klemer
The Season of Delicate Hunger:
Anthology of Contemporary Bulgarian Poetry
(Accents Publishing)
the only thing she owns is a dress
for all the days of the year
to distinguish holidays from work days
sometimes she puts on a brooch
during leap year she gets married
and the dresses become two
then every day of the year
she has doubts about the brooch
–Yordanka Beleva,
translated from the Bulgarian
by Katerina Stoykova-Klemer
The Season of Delicate Hunger:
Anthology of Contemporary Bulgarian Poetry
(Accents Publishing)
Without a declared competition
the winner is proclaimed.
Production quality is immaterial,
jury competency is irrelevant:
the award for best supporting role
always goes to death.
Someone else’s, of course.
–Marin Bodakov,
translated from the Bulgarian
by Katerina Stoykova-Klemer
The Season of Delicate Hunger:
Anthology of Contemporary Bulgarian Poetry
(Accents Publishing)
She closes the newspaper and says:
did you read, in Iowa
it hailed—chunks
the size of a golf ball.
That, I say, is because
they go overboard with golf there,
they’ve lost many balls
which are now coming back,
He returns the balls,
you understand, that jokester.
But she doesn’t laugh,
turns around and says horrified:
He always hits the mark.
–Georgi Gospodinov,
She has been in the sea and it has been in her.
She has conceived in the relative peace of the bottom
with crustaceans, greenish-blue seaweed,
lived with the great power of symbiosis.
Perhaps she’s been at some ancient market
with an expectation of travel,
filled with olive oil or wine, touched by strong hands,
but the sea has hidden her in its basement.
Recently she saw the white world and inhaled air at length.
Now she grieves like an abstract symbol,
makes each empty corner more bearable.
We both war against time.
Protect ourselves from the blinding shield of the sun.
–Bina Kals,
Poet Larry Moore reads “The History of Life” by Sasho Serafimov. This poem was translated by Katerina Stoykova-Klemer.
Clip from the North American premiere of The Season of Delicate Hunger: Anthology of Contemporary Bulgarian Poetry (Accents Publishing).
I wake up
dressed in a smile
it reaches all the way to my ankles
should I take it for a walk
for fresh air in the park
to survive at least until evening
or should I cook it
into a vegetable soup
for the fragile family equilibrium
on my way out
I don’t dare look in the mirror
-Aksinia Mihaylova,
translated from the Bulgarian
by Katerina Stoykova-Klemer
The Season of Delicate Hunger:
Anthology of Contemporary Bulgarian Poetry
(Accents Publishing)
When a poor man begs
on the corner—
it’s a disgrace.
When a rich company
begs on the phone—
it’s a marketing strategy.
If the poor man sends someone
to kill a bad neighbor—
it’s a crime.
If the president sends his troops
to kill a bad neighbor—
it’s liberation.
The rich man can buy a senator.
The poor man can
buy the rich man’s newspaper
and read
about the senator.
Yes, the rich kid goes to law school.
Yes, the poor kid
sells drugs on the corner.
And there is justice for all!
. Washington 2006
-Vladimir Levchev,
translated from the Bulgarian
by Katerina Stoykova-Klemer
The Season of Delicate Hunger:
Anthology of Contemporary Bulgarian Poetry
(Accents Publishing)
For the first time she saw the world like this
not a world but a map
not a map but a slit stomach
draining fecal waters
the very blandness of life
She knew—whizzing around her
was neither dirt nor sand
and by the chill she realized—
her world had gone bankrupt
but she ascended
and ascended
upwards
Never before had she seen such
an unchangeable world with unclean
rivers running across
and drops of tears and blood
marking the path below
which had no turning back
-Ani Ilkov,
translated from the Bulgarian
by Katerina Stoykova-Klemer
The Season of Delicate Hunger:
Anthology of Contemporary Bulgarian Poetry
(Accents Publishing)
Fate has humbled you—
only the sky can run over you without sinking.
You seek reasons with polite softness
and then arrange them like dominoes.
Somebody has cut away the wrath like a devil’s claw—
your finger stings, but less and less; it shall pass.
-Roza Boyanova,
translated from the Bulgarian
by Katerina Stoykova-Klemer
The Season of Delicate Hunger:
Anthology of Contemporary Bulgarian Poetry
(Accents Publishing)
