The Things
Art must mount a full-scale attack on language itself,
by means of language and its surrogates, on behalf of the standard of silence.
Susan Sontag.
I talk too much.
The Things are:
a flower
a grain of sand
a spark.
And all together.
Translator bulgarian-english: : Milena Veleva
poem by Bozhidar Pangelov
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My Pigeons
My pigeons.
these, who live
in the birdhouse,
(for
pets)
are not at all “my” pigeons.
I am not there during the day.
And I cannot recognize myself.
At night they talk to each other.
I understand that this is so,
when in the room with my pigeons
I am met by a big blue eye.
They shyly grow quiet.
Please,
Do not be concerned.
They get along just fine.
poem by Bozhidar Pangelov
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Iu
Little IU,
Little IU...
Drop, drop,
drop, drop.
Drops...
Body -
shaking leaves
Ю
м а л к а Ю ,
м а л к а Ю …
ц о п - ц о п
ц о п - ц о п
к а п ч и ц и …
т я л о –
л и с т т р е п е р е щ
poem by Bozhidar Pangelov
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Dolphin Manifesto
now not anymore
the Island that isn't
a loneliness but
Choice without being
There we were sitting and
The Sea was coming and
We (me and you) - a gorgeous staple,
Hooked,
were creating and
we saw him (after years and years) how
he was entering
like a rainbow huge
unattainable and
slow
brown - like a beam
(to hold for it)
nonpoetry - the other one is breakable
when the meaning they wave -
a hand of an insane man before a mirror
nongame - the game is dead
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poem by Bozhidar Pangelov
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Fall Omen
Twinkling,
when even the day
is shrinking,
and the sun declines
in the fold of the mountains,
belches out quietly
the fall flame from
the cornfield,
where the raven
is only
the fingers of a plough.
--
original:
Е с е н н а п о л и ч б а
В м и г ,
к о г а т о и д е н я т
с е с в и в а ,
и с л ъ н ц е т о з а м и р а
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poem by Bozhidar Pangelov
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