Boyan Angelov (Bulgaria)

 
Boyan Angelov (Bulgaria)
 
Boyan Angelov was born on 27th of August 1955 in Panagyurishte town, Bulgaria. He has a degree in Philosophy and Bulgarian Philology from Sofia University “Sv. Kliment Ohridski”. He has defended doctoral thesis at Institute for Philosophical Researches at Bulgarian Academy of Sciences.
From 1998 to 2005 he studied and worked in Switzerland, where he got a Doctorate degree in Valdorf’s Pedagogy and Social Psychology. He is an author of 30 poetry books in Bulgarian. His poems have been translated into English, German, French, Russian, Italian, Spanish, Turkish, Greek, Chinese, Japanese, Romanian, Hungarian, Arabic, Croatian, Czech, Ukrainian and other languages.
He is a Director of “Bulgarian writer” Publishing House and has been a Chairman of the Union of Bulgarian Writers since June 2014.
 
 
SPACE FOR DROWNED MEN
 
The purpose of the wind is
To transfer to the mustard seed
From sleepy Kyoto’s pagodas
To the Andes, to mysterious Quito,
asleep on the equator of Ecuador.
 
From Quito to Kyoto – only ocean
With tormenting and solemn waves –
But tranquil waters are the most insidious
And you can sink till deep inside with hours/ deep in for hours
If you are not the mustard seed
In the dark throat of the hurricane
If you are not:
                 Pagoda,
                 Mountain,
                 Space,
                 Polyphony,
                 Poet …
 
 
CONVERSATION WITH SILENCE
 
The voice does not seem unfamiliar
But sounds are so unclear
That my hearing has to become
A radar station
And decipher
What the mountain will tell me
(This mountain that I compare to
The headless sphinx)…
I don’t believe I’m colder
Than the stone
I already possess
A recipe
How to survive
In that exact case
If I fall into
Insights destructive…
But the voice does not sound
Like a real voice
And the mountain actually
Is so mountainous
Although it’s called
Sainte Viktoire
It was immortalized
By Cezanne
And in the night
Astonishment it’s radiating…
   
                I mean the sphinx
                That I had a talk with…
                Tomorrow
 
LIANAS
 
In parallel worlds
Have only skyscrapers
Built of non-concrete
And antiduraluminium
They have no corners
But round shapes
Howl like lianas
Tormented by
Torture
 
In parallel worlds
Have only suicides
Without souls they are
But they still breathing
With their hearts
They wrapped themselves
And in the invisible
They sink
They howl like lianas
Tormented by
Torture
 
In parallel worlds
Or
May be
Inside me
 
 
AQUARIUM
 
The airplane is a huge fish
With hypertrophic gills
And in the cloudy aquarium
Named sky
Dived with roar
The clouds below me – Antarctica
Below me even is the rain
And you inside the rain
In puddles
You walk toward the bus…
 
Reverse directions are divisible
To heartache only
That reminds of rupture
 
Rupture –
Rehearsal for the death
 
 
YOUNG CONFUCIUS
 
He is turning arrows from steel
In corn-flowers
And keeps going and going
And keeps talking and talking
To water
That has many depths
But the most transparent is
The spring one
 
Young Confucius
Mixes a handful of rice
With a handful of coals
And he’s hammering to the sky
Rounded comets
To be candled to the Empire
That has many heights
But the highest is the Emperor
The father of fathers
 
Young Confucius
Turns his hair in white
Because wisdom so demanded
And keeps going and going
And keeps talking and talking
Till he’s turning himself in wisdom
While the wisdom-teeth grow Plato –
Wreath of cornflowers
Till plaits hands of steel
 
 
AEDICULE
 
Before they will burned me,
My dear,
You should take my heart
With you
To breathe with full breasts
Because so long time suffers
In lock-ups of the soul
 
Do not permit it go on fire
Do not permit it fall on the ground
The fire is heartless
The ground is pregnant
With bread and death
 
The bread does not satisfy our hunger
And death is greedy and grasping
 
Before they will burned me,
My dear,
You should take my soul
With you
 
 
 
ANDRE CHENIN
 
At least three reasons make him inequitable:
The first – he is a poet and leads
The queen of the night is dying of love,
And causes the poor to destroy the Bastilles
 
The second – he is a child of this revolution
That likes to eat its’ own children
 
The third – he believes in good beginning
As the statute of justice
 
So – in defense of equality –
Fraternal tribunal condemned him
To… freedom
Through… guillotined
 
The freedom is still licking
 
The blood of the poet is so sweet
 
 
THE WALKS OF KANT
 
The sky is so sublime
That there need prolegomens
To land it really to us
To clean it from the smoke
And the other mortal beings
Go shopping salmon smoked
At the port of Konigsberg
Every night Kant walks
At five P.M. exactly
And crawls pure reason
But he feels scanty
Smelling of damp day
So the far distance is salty
With profile invisible
 
Unattainable
Every night Kant walks
And it welcomes him clock dial
Of the big clock of the cathedral
Then pure reason asleep
In its transcendent blanket
That there need prolegomens
For the sublime ideas
For large space for a priori
But the platform meanders
Between peasants and fishermen
Between earls and dukes
In this royal hill
By the sea
 
 
 
COLUMBARIUM
 
The verse is a bridge,
Breaded from the hair
                             Of all those women – unachieved.
The verse is a bridge
                            Over Dead Sea,
                            Neither abysses, nor bones underneath,
You have no right of last words.
For love is a weakness,
It needs
A medicine for heart disease,
                            but
                            where could I find it,
                            while living
                            under the Galilean cypresses?
I cannot move –
                           A thought alone
                           Is crippling through the ashes of my body.
I feel distress – a wound of exclamation,
Received as token
For my loyalty.
Unreachable
             Is an aim,
                     An arrow,
                                  A moan,
                                  Of boldness embryo,
                                  The other side of the song
                                   And some indelible anxieties.
Don’t make me cruel,
For it were you
Who used to prove
                    There was no other life!
Within me lives the galley slave, he knows
What brings the flower
Closer to granite.
Cold are the senses,
emptied
is the glass,
through which Demosthenes touched Gods’ pride …
The verse is a bridge,
                          beetling
                                      towards the sky
 
 
SHADOW THEATRE
 
I see the room
The same
The same table
The vase
The night lamp and the globe
With frosted lights
I see
The library
The books untouched
The books still not quite read
The books, so craved
In the milky dusk of the kitchen
Your laughter echoes still
And over the empty bed
A shadow on the wall
As in a Chinese poem
My shadow – stooped,
Your shadow – gone.
 
 
 
 
PHILOSOPHY OF NATURE
 
Can you see the crowns
not the ones belonging to
emperors or kings
these are crowns of trees bursting into bloom
fateful and redolent of honey
courted by bees
butterflies and Machaons,
can’t you see the ants
all their swarthy lines
a host of dandelions and petunias
putting forth buds
the fences hurling their
feeble-minded bodies
the thick torrent of seasons
pouring forth
however the bushes still breathe
and the roses have lost their homes
because metaphorical weeds press them
red-breasted robins splash wall-flower
petals at each other proud like peacocks
a flock of blackbirds flies for a walk
pecking at mauve blackberries
like emperors and kings
the winter is no longer here
and flowers have no curtains
 
 
ACCEPTANCE OF SORROW
 
Man’s consciousness is a jungle
virgin soil
a lair of a desert fox
whirling internecine wars
stalking
fragrant babel
I am cold and I wrap myself up
buttoning up fields and streams
offering a purple opportunity
receiving heavenly rumble
generated by a dying Megapolis
my joyfulness is unexplainable
I feel it is so timid and impudent
that I bundle it up and
I feel happy
Yet I am frightened
I am desperate
for man’s consciousness
is a hiding-place
of knowledge and notions
my dad lives there
my mom irons our shirts
in a house made of
old photographs
in living memory of snowflakes.
 
 
MAPS EARTH
 
The white hand of the clock composed of black words
approaches the earth’s gravity
and Niagara shows up
with a crater of unexploded sparks.
A better will forebodes
the virtual core of our embarrassment
and the state of being unintentional witnesses
of puzzled radiances.
 
Niagara
in the unknown…
 
 
 

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