Dimitria Chakova (Bulgaria)

Dimitria Chakova (Bulgaria)
Dimitria Chakova is born in Plovdiv, Bulgaria. She is a graphic designer and publisher.
Author of the books of poetry “Purple Element”, 2008 and “Hunter of Hope”, 2014.
She has taken part in a number of international projects, such as:
Possible Mothers, Collection of Essays, 2011, Italy
Cultural Palette, Almanac, 2013, Bulgaria
Bulgarian quantum poetry, Almanac, 2015, UK
“If you are looking for Love”, Almanac, 2018, Bulgaria
Contacts: e-mail: kanelamed@gmail.com
Words left
They just left
Each on its own way
Even the drowsy stray dog
Boldly turned its back on me
August has set
Summer has fled
Sun – a rusty token
Such a lot of space and air to write –
I’m gripping a nail.
If seven days is all I have left
Seven biblical days
And into dust I settle…
I ask for seven divine truths
And a feather flooded with sin.
I ask to see my spine,
All my hidden faces.
To kiss traitors again
To have ink soil the blood.
The final seven minutes,
I ask to be the eye of that bee –
And to gaze
into your soul, Lord,
As I do
in a drop of dew.
Men who’ve got Womb
Carry planets.
Minds of titans
eyes of poets.
With a free spirit they love
Out of the sun they make us
They light up the stars
Out of breath they leave us.
They bring mothers into a world that creates.
Those men with no womb
Carry themselves
And deliver wa
Time is flying frantically towards me
Our collision is imminent.
All that’s heavy I cast out
This chorus is the last one
How do you manage to be so gentle?
How did you, in this swarm
with no brakes, with no road,
manage to snatch me away from the dreadful crash?
How did you bring me back into your heart
Away from the row.
Tempered me down
and got wiser somehow.
And just where did you get all that might from,
so much so you can stop
the old spreading the kiss of death?
Furrowed and grey is the pale face
of the moon, enviously hiding it away .
There’s beds for sleeping, my dear,
And beds for love making.
Beds for dreaming
And beds where mysteries come to pass.
Warm covers
And tough plank-beds.
Forsaken hammocks
And swings woven with hopes.
The world has it all, my dear,
But this one bed-
Your heart
Reflected in my eyes.
Long summer shadows
Take off shoes and heavily ripen.
Drained yet they dance.
And the grapes are bulky
and yawning from that sweet sleep
Kiss me. Now. Right here.
God’s blooms are getting thicker.
The sweet boredom of fall sticking
All over my writing fingers.
I love these slow days.
That cover me with inevitability
The trumpet player will shelter
the leftovers of my faint tenderness.
Under the cherry blossom
poetic words will drip.
Their juice will stain the earth.
From the spirit of creation I sipped
And through the silence I seeped.

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